


Samael

by theleafpile



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm gonna hurt him for a while though, Lucifer whump, Multi Chapter, Scars, Smut, bed sharing, chloe has trust issues, chloe helps him heal, dan has one line, eventually, he tells Chloe his name, his sister makes an appearance, his true name helps, how could they not do it, lets be real, lucifer loses the ability to control his form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleafpile/pseuds/theleafpile
Summary: Chloe asks Lucifer about his real name. His true form begins to leak through when he refuses to tell her. Coincidence?





	1. Who Names Their Child After the Devil?

Chloe Decker had enough of her ex-husband bailing on their only child, enough of the stares at the precinct whenever Lucifer blazed through – he was extraverted, and extravagant, and plainly not shy when talking about anything and everything, but you would think after a while the glazed expressions he left behind him would, you know, cease – and very recently, enough of the Devil shtick he refused to give up.  


So she sat out on the back step, enjoying a rare peaceful moment in the sunshine, no less, and alone. If there was a God, He wanted her to have this moment. The breeze was soft against her skin, the small bit of grass her mother decided absolutely needed to be in the backyard (water restrictions be damned) was gentle and green and new. She closed her eyes and rested her chin in the crook of her arm, a small smile playing with the corners of her mouth.  


She was lost in the moment, not hearing the back door open, or shut softly behind her.  


Usually Lucifer would be one to breeze through all her doors with all the ease of a tornado, uncaring of what she happened to be doing at that particular moment – and quite happily accepting whatever consequences she cooked up if it meant he could catch her coming out of the shower again, her skin still wet and, from where he stood, invitingly warm. Which is exactly why Chloe had taken to dead bolting the front door.  


“Personal space” was not a concept familiar to her partner.  


Today, however, Lucifer had just left Linda, who had his mind reeling with her questions. He wanted nothing more than to see his detective, to hear her voice, and that was precisely the reason he went to see the good doctor that morning – to have her explain to him why, exactly, his partner was rapidly becoming the only thing on his mind.  


But Linda only smiled and told him to think on it himself. He left her then, shooting a look over his shoulder at her still-smiling face, and asking what it was he was paying her for, again, exactly?  


The distaste for his therapist all but left him at the sight of Chloe. His expression was soft as he gazed upon the woman, who was apparently oblivious to his presence. Her golden hair played gently upon the back of her black t-shirt, and he wished he could feel the tresses between his fingers.  


In that moment, it didn’t even occur to him that he could wrap her hair around his hand and pull it, to pull new sounds out of her.  


No, he only watched as she sighed, contentedly, against her arm, and suddenly his shoulder ached for the weight of her head against it. Slowly, he walked across the porch to the step, and sat in the space next to her, smoothing the creases from his trousers.  


She opened her eyes, wide in surprise, and, seeing it was him, relaxed. She stretched her arms out in front her, hands clasped, and he admired the taunt muscles beneath her sun-kissed and freckled skin.  


“And what were you thinking about?” he asked her, all hellos and good afternoons forgone for more important questions on his mind.  


The smile on her face faded and the skin between her eyebrows creased slightly, her contemplative mood returning.  


“Nothing you want to hear about,” she told him, and flashed him what he instantly recognized as one of his own sad smiles. “Why are you here?” she asked.  


He tilted his head, searching. He wasn’t going to lie to her, of course, but “I wanted to see you” was not about to slip from his mouth.  


Not when she had made it perfectly clear – over, and over again – that she was tired of his insistence that they sleep together.  


So he settled for focusing on her, instead. “I want to know,” he told her. She made an unbelieving sound and looked back out in the yard, ignoring his gaze.  


“Please,” he asked, with a softness in his voice she had not heard since, well – she placed it instantly. The same please that escaped from him when she saw his back.  


The scars on his back, which he had told her – in so many words – were his father’s doing.  


She wiped her face, trying to wipe away the sudden warmth rising in her face. The anger.  


“I was thinking about Trixie,” she began. “And Dan.” That didn’t help her anger much, either.  


He scoffed, inspecting his ring. “I wouldn’t bother thinking about him much.”  


“Kind of hard not to,” she argued. “Especially –” the breath threatened to hitch in her throat. “Since he ought to be around more.”  


She saw Lucifer’s face harden. Absent fathers.  
Or was it jealously? Surely he knew she wanted him around for Trixie. She shouldn’t have brought it up.  
But he was her partner, and he asked. So. He brought it on himself.  


“Old news. He tries, I know,” she offered. “There’s a lot going on.”  


“There always is, detective.” The look on his face hadn’t softened.  


She brushed a loose hair behind her ears. “Trixie deserves more.”  


“I suppose. As far as offspring goes, she’s alright.”  


She smiled at his unease. “Just alright?”  


He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. Are they always so… sticky? And loud?”  


She giggled at that. His love of children was anything but.  


“Pretty much, yeah. Kids are just kids.”  


“Spawn, honestly. Had I known I could have created a whole new division of hellions based on them. Tortured souls in Hell the same as children torture their parents here.” He padded the chest pocket of his suit jacket. “Maybe I should write this down,” he joked, his eyes twinkling mischievously.  


It wasn’t working, this strange attitude of his. Chloe could only think, despite his charming smile: This again. The sunshine couldn’t help her mood, after all. More of this “spawn” and “offspring” nonsense from him.  


“There’s no children in Hell, though,” he continued. “For obvious reasons, I hope.”  


She felt her muscles tighten against him. He didn’t notice.  


“What kind of a name is Trixie, anyway?” He asked, oblivious to her mounting tension. “Why not just call her by her given name? Sounds like –”  


The question was innocent enough, she would think in retrospect, but the words that tumbled out of her mouth were not kind.  
She cut him off. “What kind of a name is Lucifer?” she asked, looking him in his now-confused eyes. “Who names their child after the Devil? What kind of parents?”  


He fell oddly quiet at that. She took a deep breath in. She knew what kind of parents. The same ones that could do… that.  


“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “I don’t mean –”  


“It’s not my given name,” he interrupted. “Though your concern is positively exciting,” he teased.  


“I thought you had said, when we met –”  


“’God-given,’ I remember,” he smiled a little, recalling the night they met, the murder of his – friend? – Delilah, the detective’s form in his club for the first time.  


And, for some reason, he had hoped it wasn’t the last.  


“I didn’t exactly… lie. But I chose it. After…” his voice trailed off.  


For the first time, the Devil was speechless. After he fell, of course. There was no secrecy there. Why not just say it?  


Chloe noticed his hesitation. She boldly eased her arm around to the back of him. He watched the ground between them, an ant crawling along a blade of grass (how fitting), when he felt her place a hand on the middle of his back, below his scars.  


How desperately they ached to be touched. None of his partners for the evening ever dared, out of respect, perhaps. Out of fear, more likely, fear of his reaction – they weren’t looking for an emotional connection.  


But as he silently urged her hands to go further up, he wondered if her hand physically connecting with them was all he wanted.  


She could feel his muscles stiffening, and thought she must have made him uncomfortable. She allowed her fingers to trail back down his back as she eased it onto the ground. 

For as often as they touched – a few stray fingers grabbing a coffee cup, a hand on his forearm to get him to stop walking – she plainly avoided his back.  


“What –” she started, and cut herself off. It was probably too much. Though she wasn’t sure if she would get another chance.  


His eyebrows raised in a question, still not meeting her eyes.  


He shouldn’t hide this many things from me, she thought. Bolder now, perhaps by the odd vulnerability he was showing, she asked the question on her lips.  


“What was your name before?”  


It was too much, apparently. Lucifer stood and turned away in one fluid motion, walking back into her house, leaving her arms empty and the air around her suddenly cooler.  


Normally, she would have gotten up and trailed after him, demanding an explanation, but today she let him go, and only flinched a little when she heard she front door slam.


	2. Detective, Really. Nothing To Worry About.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer notices a big red mark on his side, and tries to hide it - unsuccessfully - from his beloved detective.

Lucifer’s eyes burned, and not with rage. He made his way back to Lux, winding through the empty bar back to his flat, though he wasn’t exactly sure how he got there. Probably ran several red lights on his way. He thought they were having a normal conversation when suddenly, out of the blue, she had to go and ask him that.  


As if he ever wanted to hear that name again.  


Especially falling from her lips.  


Her companionship was something he had only just gained. There was no reason to taint it with something he had lost.  
(And he had lost. Everything.)  


He reached over the bar in his apartment and grabbed the closest bottle of amber liquid he could find, pouring a generous amount into his glass before downing it and pouring another. One small benefit of the detective not being around. The liquid was cool, not burning, against the back of his throat.  


And damn it all to Hell, he thought bitterly, he missed that sensation.  


The feeling of being real, for once in his eternal life.  


Halfway through a second bottle he decided it was late enough in the evening to make an appearance downstairs. He rose from the couch and the room stayed where it was, supernatural metabolism leaving him unaffected by the same amount of alcohol that would have someone else spinning.  


Oh well. More was always downstairs, and there were people, distractions.  


He shed that day’s clothing as he padded to the bathroom for a quick shower. A dark blue suit tonight, he thought, deciding on designers as he passed the mirror clad only in black boxers. Black was always an option – the only option, according to Maze – but he enjoyed unpredictability.  


Except when he came to himself. His unpredictability was, at this point, predictable. And frankly, it was getting a little… tiresome. And he had no idea why.  


He backed up, eying himself in the mirror when before he had only caught a glimpse of himself out of the corner of his eye. A patch of skin on his stomach, about the size of a hand, was red, a trick of the light? But no: it creeped up his side to his ribs, on the side of his heart.  


It wasn’t just irritated. It was burned. Bleeding.  


He lifted his arm to get a better look in the mirror and gingerly trailed a finger over it. It felt wet, but when he removed his finger, there was no residue left behind. He wondered how he didn’t notice the ache of it before. It felt like tendrils were reaching outward over the surrounding skin, tight and painful, like –  


Like scar tissue.  


That delicious pain he recognized immediately, underneath the pale skin and dark eyes. No wonder he didn’t notice before.  


His fallen form was bleeding out.  


He poked at it a bit more. No fun with any Brittanys tonight. Even his charms wouldn’t work to push this out of their minds. Or his own.  


He fiddled with the ring he always wore, turned it round, making sure it wasn’t damaged or scratched. How it could be? The stone was forged in Hell, nothing on Earth was going to affect it. And as he spun it, he could see nothing different.  


He leaned against his hands on the cool porcelain of the bathroom sink and revealed his true face to himself, his body changing with it to its marred and ugly shape. He changed back. The skin on his stomach remained the same. Perhaps even slightly larger now.  


Right. No changing back and forth, then.  


Somewhere in the back of his head his mind registered the shrill ding of the elevator, and a familiar voice ringing out his name.  


He clicked off the bathroom light and stood in the dark, still. It was the detective. He listened as her boots clicked against the tile, the clink of a bottle, the smooth pour of probably too much of something into a glass. Something had her upset, and not something he did, because she wasn’t yelling at him about it yet.  


His clothes were out in the living room, and she would most certainly see this mark on him if he tried to pass in front of her to the closet in the bedroom.  


In a rush, he tugged off his boxers. Perhaps she wouldn’t look at him long enough to notice the sudden appearance on his side if she saw he was parading around in his birthday suit.  


Of course, the thought of her seeing him in the nude sent a rush of blood down from his brain, and he smiled. That would certainly move her attention away from the rest of him.  


He strolled out of the bathroom confidently, calling out.  


“Detective! What a pleasant surprise.”  


“Hardly a surprise,” she mumbled, turning toward his voice. He stepped into full view and smiled, careful not to throw his arms open as he normally would to greet her.  


“But always pleasant,” he countered, and she spun on her heels with a huff, pulling a hand up to her eyes.  


Exactly the reaction he expected, though a twinge in his chest reminded him it wasn’t the one he wanted.  


He hurried off into the walk-in closet, speaking over her silence.  


“Is there something you wanted my help with?” he called out, finding a new pair of underwear and picking out the same suit he had just been thinking of. “A helping hand? Or a helping –”  


Her yelp interrupted him. “No, no,” she said, and he imagined her wagging her finger at him.  


That wasn’t helping him tug on his pants any.  


“I came,” she drawled out. Perhaps she had been waiting for him downstairs, and already had a few.  


“You came?” he teased.  


“Here to see you.”  


“Naturally, darling,” he managed to relax enough to begin buttoning his dark blue, nearly purple, shirt, stepping out into view. Her back was still turned, her ponytail dancing across her back.  


She seemed to be repeating what he had just said in her head, her hand waving by her head as though batting away the words from her ears.  


By the time she snuck a peek he was buttoning his cuffs, belt on but hanging loosely, undone. He hated not having showered before changing, but sacrifices had to be made. If she had arrived a few moments later he might have forgone the hesitation and invited her into the water with him and distracted her with other methods.  


She stood before him, black jeans and boots, a tight red tank top – perhaps she did come to her senses, he thought, live a little – and a scotch?, he assumed, in hand. He smiled broadly at her tight attire, and she shifted her weight under his gaze, uncomfortable, fighting it.  


“I wanted to say that I’m sorry. For earlier.”  


“And for a little fun, it seems.” He turned away, pulling his belt together, walking back to the closet. “No need. All is forgiven.”  


“Seemed like it really bothered you.”  


“Detective, really. Nothing to worry about.” He held the jacket in his hands and swirled it around his body to pull it on.  


The sudden stretch of his arm pulled the skin on his stomach and he winced, dropping his arm. Perhaps the detective being here wasn’t such a good idea after all. Not until he knew what was happening.  


Probably his brother’s influence, if he had to place blame somewhere.  


In a flash, Chloe was over to him, her free hand hovering over his side. Her touch earlier had sent him running away, and she had no intention of that happening again.  


“You’re hurt?” she asked, looking at him with concern. “Is that why you came over earlier? Why didn’t you tell me?”  


He gingerly pulled his suit jacket on the rest of the way, and she pulled her hand back. “I’m fine,” he lied.  


She pointed toward him with her drink. “Not fine.” She finished the liquid in a gulp and sauntered to the bar, setting her glass down. She shook her head at the light burning it left in her throat. “Show me,” she managed, attempting not to cough.  


He brushed past her to the elevator. She rushed ahead of him and blocked the way.  


He huffed. “Really? Barely a scratch.” He leaned over her, his face inching closer to hers. He smelled of whisky and tobacco and for some reason it made him alluring instead of repulsive. “Unless,” he breathed, “you want to kiss it better.”  


The elevator dinged behind her, and she jumped. He took a step forward and she back, until they were both in the elevator.  


The space between them urged to be filled, and he resisted the temptation to keep moving her backwards, up against the wall.  


Wait. Why was he resisting?  


“Not a chance,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. The distraction of her blue eyes proved too much, for he didn’t notice when she lifted a hand and pushed it against him. Before he could pull away she found the sore spot and leaned into it.  


He yelped and leapt back at the sharp sting, looking at her accusingly. Her mouth was a hard line. “A scratch,” she repeated.  


He could only offer a charming, placating smile and bolt from her and into the crowd when the door opened into the blaring celebration downstairs.  


She could laugh at his tactics if she wasn’t so worried about all the things he wasn’t telling her.


	3. This - Is Nothing New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer tries his best to avoid Chloe.  
> Obviously she's not going to be having any of that.

A week had passed, a week where he didn’t allow anyone – even Maze – to see what had started to become of his formerly flawless (well, nearly flawless) body. The detective had called him a few days before to help with a case and he came up with an excuse, a lame one, he admitted to himself, stating he had business to take care of and it had to absolutely be done now, did he need to remind her that he actually ran a business, not just drank and partied all day?  


Which wasn’t a lie, exactly.  


She relented, and he hated himself for blowing her off. Nothing new there.  


He sat at the piano, the cool night air blowing in from the open doors to the balcony. The gentle puffs of air helped to sooth his exposed skin. He sought out the sensation, sitting shirtless, fiddling with the black and white keys in front him unthinkingly. No, his mind was on the scarred skin of his hands, his torso, and he had stepped back inside from the balcony hoping the piano could be distraction enough.  


Of course it wasn’t, though.  


The burned skin had crept, steadily, from his side to up and around his stomach and back, reaching down to the tops of his thighs and down both arms. For the last two days he had been able to cover up with his suits, but the red and weeping skin finally descended to his fingers, and approached the skin of his neck, up and over his collar.  


And it hurt. The alcohol only dulled the pain. He considered calling out to one of his regulars for something stronger, but feared that whatever was happening may have been a plot to make him weaker, vulnerable, exposed. And he didn’t want to also be stoned or unconscious in case that someone decided to make a move.  


Besides, it wasn’t like the detective was going to hang about just so he could stick a needle in a vein.  


So he canceled all his plans and closed Lux for the week. Now it was Thursday evening and his demon reminded him, not gently, that his books were going to be hurting if he did not open his club for the weekend – before she left for said weekend to hunt down some pathetic scumbag.  


Hell on Earth, indeed, he thought, and smiled at the image of Maze’s boot on some poor sack’s throat.  


His downturned phone buzzed again, moving itself over the top of the piano with its vibration.  


A bit of ash fell from the cigarette in his mouth. He plucked it from his lips and put it out in the ashtray in front of him. He had forgotten he had even lit one up, the smoke twirling into his eyes in such a familiar way it was almost soothing.  


He overturned the phone and he saw it was yet another text from Decker. The first four had been telling him about the case, a homicide on the pier, to which he responded shortly but appropriately. The next two texts were her asking if he was alright.  


He wasn’t about to lie to her, so her texts went unanswered.  


This last text was a warning that she was coming over.  


He finished his drink and steeled himself against the inevitable. What could he do now? The skin was too raw to be covered. It hurt even when she wasn’t around, and he didn’t want to imagine what it would be like when she came over.  


Unbearable.  


(Perhaps only not physically, but he didn’t allow himself to ruminate on that.)  


Would she even approach him, or just stand in the elevator, take one look at his back against her, and wait to go back down again, disgusted by the wet, lashed skin?  


Or would she march in, grip his arm tightly, and demand they go to a hospital? He would have to refuse her, and she would leave.  


Perhaps – his heart fluttered, and he cursed at it silently – perhaps she would stay, and he would –  
No. He’s been telling her who he is from the first day they met, and she never believed him.  


This isn’t how he wanted her to see him. He pulled his phone down onto the keys and began to text her back, telling her all was fine, there was simply too much official business going on to bother with a boring case right now, he would see her again in a few days – hopefully –  


When the elevator dinged, and he dropped the phone in surprise. It clattered on the tile, hitting a few odd notes on the way down.  


She had warned him, after all. And once she made up her mind, there was no changing it.  


He reached for the phone, stretching out the skin on his back, and he clenched his mouth shut against the sudden spark of fresh pain that ran though the tightly pulled skin. He shifted on the bench, turning slightly to see her in his peripheral vision.  


His detective stood just outside the elevator. It closed behind her. She was holding her hand over her mouth, her thin, white cotton sleeve covering it.  


Ah, he thought. Holding back the bile.  


He nodded in greeting, then turned back to the piano keys, and pulled another cigarette out from the small, silver carrying case he had set by the ashtray and lit it.  


Resting his elbows on top of the piano, he finally broke the silence. “If you’re going to vomit, please,” he tapped off a bit of ash, “aim for the sink. Can’t really clean up right now."  


He heard her walk over and stand behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t see her face.  


“Jesus,” she breathed out, and he felt cool hands hovering by his shoulders.  


He rolled his eyes, and she must have sensed it. “What…?” her voice trailed away.  


“Wrong brother. Most likely.” He told her, honestly. “Though usually I can cover it up. So if you came over to fill your idle hands, darling,” he took a drag, “It’ll probably have to wait.”  


“Cover…” a question in her voice. She sat herself with a thud next to him on the bench. He studied the burning end of the cigarette.  


She allowed her hands to fall in her lap and turned her head to look around his front, unabashedly. He expected it, and didn’t turn away from her, though every muscle fiber willed him to do so.  


His normally smooth and pale skin was tattered and ragged, as though he had been pulled behind a truck on a gravel road. It shined wet and red and it followed all the way down his arms.  


He glanced her way, and she saw that one of his eyes was bloodshot as well.  


“What,” she choked out. “Happened?”  


He laughed, gently, and that was enough to shake her out of her shock.  


“Why aren’t you at a hospital? Was this a fight? Why didn’t you call me?” She rambled on. “We need to go. Now. I’ll call an ambulance –” she pulled her phone from the back pocket of her dark jeans and he grabbed it from her just as quickly, his fingers holding hers still.  


“Don’t.”  


“This –” she started, motioning with her covered hands at his torso.  


“Is nothing new.” He took a long drag and, blowing the smoke away from her face, swung his legs over the bench away from her and stood, shaking his now-empty glass at her suggestively. “Drink? You look like you need one.”  


She watched him stand, unable to tear her eyes away from his – sweatpants? She had no idea he even owned such a thing – slung low on his hips, loose on what must be very sensitive skin.  


“I’ve seen you naked before.”  


He turned and waggled his eyebrows. The irritated skin crawled up the side of his face, just barely reaching the bloodshot eye.  


He hadn’t looked in the mirror in a while.  


“I’ve never seen this. It’s new to me.”  


He picked up a second glass and poured something probably too expensive into both. “Like I said. I can usually hide it. I don’t know what’s going on.”  


“Like,” she swallowed, unbelieving that he could hide such deep gashes. “With makeup?”  


“No, don’t be silly,” he carried both glasses, holding one particularly bloody pinky off the glass. “I don’t know how to explain it. I can… shift. Between this and what you’re used to. You’ve seen it.”  


She shook her head.  


“Remember? Before you shot me. Awful shot, by the way. Barely hurt.”  


She recalled, the red glare in his eyes she caught in the reflection, as he stood over a screaming suspect. The same redness that had taken over one eye.  


She reflexively took the glass he offered and took a deep breath in. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”  


He shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me.”  


Gingerly he sat back down.  


“Show me,” she asked.  


“No.”  


“No?”  


“No.”  


“Why?”  


He was silent at that.  


She risked placing a hand, softly, just above his knee. “Please.”  


He watched her hand and she worried it was hurting him, but the expression on his face was sadness, not pain.  


A long moment passed. Chloe dared not to break the silence.  


“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. She involuntarily gripped his knee tighter, and he winced.  


She pulled it away hurriedly, an apology murmuring from her mouth, and he reached out to grab her hand. His skin was soft and hot against hers, the feeling not matching the appearance.  


“Haven’t run yet, have I?” she asked it softly.  


Another long drag of the cigarette, blowing the smoke out his nose. He faced her, spared a look into her gently pleading eyes. He shifted, and dropped his eyes, unable to meet hers.  


Immediately she tugged her hand from his and he knew it was over, then.  


He let her study him for a moment, then returned his face to as far back to beautiful as it would go. He left her seated, walking out onto the balcony, flicking his now-spent cigarette over the edge and into the night.  


For the first time in a long time, he wished he could see the stars. The last time he had really, truly been able to see them sparkle was when he and Maze had drifted together in the open ocean, far enough away from the coastline that they could be seen clearly. The stars, glimmering so far away, reminded me of a light he had not seen for so long, a light fading in his memory.  


He glanced down at his hands on the railing and noticed that the hand she had been holding had healed, the skin fresh and pale. He flexed it in front of him, wondering how it had healed so quickly.  


He spared a look toward the piano and saw the detective was no longer there.  


So whatever she had done – by touching him – well, that was over now, wasn’t it? He was going to be stuck like this.  


Might as well tell Maze to pack her things. They were going home, after all.


	4. Death. It Meant Death.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe makes Lucifer tell her his name. She sees him healing. He's too upset to notice.

Lucifer stood out in the darkness, for how long Chloe didn’t know. Time had lost its meaning to her when she saw his hunched figure over the piano, the deep lacerations scarring his back, so fresh and real that she simultaneously burned with rage and went ice-cold in her veins at the thought of him sitting there in the dark alone and in pain, all this time.  


He didn’t deserve it, whatever had happened.  


That was no accident, either. That was torture. Deliberate. For all his talk of being the devil, being evil – she couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see how a man could survive through all that pain.  


She sat on his bed, studying her hands in her lap, waiting for him to come back inside. His face had frightened her. The hair had been burned off, his eyes were black and red and bloodshot and wouldn’t lift to meet hers, and the shame she knew he felt was too much for either of them to bear.  


Lucifer was nothing if not vain and prideful of the looks he could draw just by walking into a room. Yet he sought her attention, above all others. She hated herself for pulling her hand away, but it went to her mouth to stifle whatever sound was threatening to escape from her.  


It was a sob, she realized now, as tears fell on her hands.  


Perhaps she was prideful as well, not wanting him to hear her crying.  


All this time he had been telling her the truth, and she wrote his antics off as crazy, deeply disturbed. She constantly surprised herself by allowing him to assist on her cases, because as nuts as he was, as sex-driven and suggestive and frightening and pushy, he helped.  


Mostly. On the cases. But his laughter and dark smile helped her get through her days, and the long, empty nights, more than she cared to admit.  


It wasn’t that he made her less lonely. She still went to bed alone at night. It was that he made her less empty.  


She looked forward to seeing him bringing her coffee in the mornings, and seeing his car pulled up next to hers, and even looked forward to his suggestive jokes – if only to get the little rush she felt from turning him down, over and over again.  


Seeing him in pain, and trying to cover it, to hide it from her – she breathed in and out, gasping suddenly for oxygen, unaware that she had been holding her breath.  


Lucifer was her friend, and she cared for him. She hadn’t realized, until now, how much.  


She heard, between breaths, footsteps coming closer then stopping. She saw his bare feet, and somehow that made things worse. Bare feet meant he was at home, that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere, that he was at ease.  


And none of those things rang true.  


“You’re still here.”  


She wiped her face and suddenly he was there, kneeling in front of her.  


She smiled a little at that. Devil at her heels.  


“Duh,” she said, unable to force anything more than a syllable out.  


“Eloquent,” he teased. Then, more seriously, he placed the good hand on her knee. “You helped me,” he told her, and she followed his eyes to his hand, which was plain and unmarked.  


“How…?” He allowed her to lift and turn it, palm up, studying. She took two fingers and trailed it up to his still marked wrist, as though taking his pulse. The skin began to heal in front of their eyes, then stopped, so it was still red and raw but not bloody and open, as though it was a burn that had just shed a scab.  


“Well as they say, I’ll be damned,” he said, and she reached and held his face in her hands, forcing him to look up at her.  


“You.” She felt fresh tears welling. “Are not damned.”  


His bloodshot eye cleared and he opened his mouth to rebut but she continued. “I don’t know what you are,” and he closed his mouth in a sad smile, “but it is not that.”  


“I’ve been telling you, detective,” he placed his hands over hers. “Lucifer. The Devil himself. In the flayed flesh.”  


She shook her head. He gently tried to pry her hands away from his face, but she held fast. She could see what he couldn’t. The skin turning back to what she was familiar with. 

The healing began to creep down his face, his eye turning back into the dark, probing brown she was used to. She didn’t know which one of them was making it happen, but she wasn’t about to risk leaving him alone.  


“No.”  


“I don’t know what else I can do to convince you.”  


“Not ‘Lucifer,’” she said, and he looked at her quizzically. He must have broken her.  


“Yes,” he drew out the syllable. “Same old Lu –”  


“What was your name before?”  


He stuffed the rest of his sentence back into his suddenly dry mouth. He tried to pull his head down and away but again, he was stopped.  


“Look at me,” she commanded, and he did, dark eyes studying hers. “Tell me.”  


“I don’t go by that name anymore,” he resisted. “It doesn’t mean anything anymore.”  


“What did it mean?”  


His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. She wasn’t sure if it was from that that his eyes began to water at the edges.  


She wasn’t going to be letting him go anytime soon. His shoulders slumped and he relaxed further onto his heels.  


“Death.” He paused. Somehow that was worse than the name he had now. “It meant Death.”  


“What?” she asked, disbelieving. “That can’t be right.”  


“Oh, you’re correcting me, now?” he teased lightly, his heart not in it.  


“And ‘Morningstar’?” she asked.  


“The Light-bringer,” he finished for her. “I liked it better. It was a...” his voice trailed, and he looked into her eyes cautiously, "Well. A kind of nickname."   


“But why would – He – call you ‘Death’?”  


Her hands relaxed, moving down onto his neck and shoulders. The skin was returning to normal. She knew he couldn’t see it.  


Perhaps he could feel it, though.  


“Someone had to do it,” he shrugged lightly. Then, thinking: “Perhaps not ‘Death,’ exactly. That’s a human word for it.” He paused again, trying to come up with a way to say it that she might understand.  


If he needed anyone to understand, it was her. “It’s the same as when a star burns. That.”  


She smiled for the first time since seeing him that night. He was so much like a star burning, hot and fiery and lighting up everything he touched with life.  


On long nights, when Chloe couldn’t find sleep, she’d take a blanket to the television downstairs and lay on the couch with the science channel on, listening to astronomers talking about galaxies and strange stars and physics and boy, that usually knocked her right out.  


But apparently she retained something, because the idea that stars burn so hot that they force atoms together to make new elements suddenly all made sense.  


No wonder Lucifer was so electric, pulling people towards him, into his orbit.  


He saw her and tilted his head. “You are that,” she agreed, and cupped his face in her hands again, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Life.”  


The skin on his torso had begun pulling itself together, patching over itself in strings of pale skin, attaching itself over exposed muscle.  


“You’re not listening,” he said, irritated. He stood, suddenly, and her hands ran down his body and back into her lap. She looked up at him, his eyes hard, his posture stiff as it towered over her.  


She would be afraid, a man standing over her like that. But she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.  


Not ever.  


“How could you presume to understand?” he asked, tense. “I was created to destroy all things. Free will my arse. He knew. He knew all along what I was going to do, and allowed me to do it. Some part of His big ‘plan.’ To become this,” he gestured toward himself, “charred and damaged thing. Which apparently I’m not allowed to hide anymore.”  


She stood, forcing him to take a step backward.  


His hands were fists at his sides, threatening to shake apart.  


“So I have to return to Hell. Can’t bloody well be walking around Los Angeles like one of your corpses.”  


She reached out and touched his sides, his stomach. His jaw clenched. She stepped forward, sliding her hands around to his back.  


His voice softened at her touch. “I have to leave you.”  


As though saying it would help her walk away, and he could get it over with, like ripping off a bandage.  


But now she was hugging him, he realized, her face against his chest.  


His chest which was no longer hurting.  


He looked down at his arms, plain as they were a week ago.  


She slid her hands further up, to his scars (she was curious, perhaps, if they would go away too), and tilted her chin back to look at his face. Her hair framed fell back from her face and, in the warm lamp light of his bedroom, looked suspiciously like a halo. He narrowed his eyes at her, unsure what she was doing.  


She took a step to the side and he turned with her, stunned. She kept turning until his back was toward the bed, then she gently pushed him forward until he was sitting. He looked down at himself, his skin pale and plain, and was met with the detective’s knee on the outside of his thigh. He looked into her face, and she stepped forward with her other foot, bending to straddle his legs.  


His hands automatically went to her outer thighs, as he had done with so many others. But never with her.  


She leaned in, brushed her nose against his. His eyes fluttered closed. His shoulders were still tense, she could feel the muscles taunt with anxiety under her hands.  


But his hands were no longer fists, so that she was counting as a win.  


“Tell me,” she whispered. She felt his head jerk, imperceptible unless she was right up against it. He knew exactly what she spoke of, and hoped she had forgotten.  


His breath was hot against her lips. She wound her hands from his shoulders around to his back, allowing her fingers to trail lightly against his scars. His breath hitched lightly.  


She pressed in harder on the scarred skin, and his breath became more ragged. “Tell me, Lucifer. Please.”  


The last word broke him. He pulled her to him, pelvis flush against his own, and she let out a gasp he suddenly, desperately wanted to hear over and over again.  


Her lips still hovered over his. He tried to breach the gap but she pulled back, so slightly, but enough to send a message. Not until you tell me.  


You know, normally he liked games.  


He opened his eyes and watched as she slowly opened her own. Her body had begun to betray her, her hips rocking against him gently.  


Her hands slid back up his shoulders, down his chest.  


“Why?” he breathed out, the sensation of her weight on his lap causing blood to pool in that area.  


She noticed, as well, and shifted slightly, grinding down, forward.  


“I want to know you,” she found herself saying.  


“You can get to know me as well as you like –” he said, moving his hands to her ass and gripping tightly, testing to see what he could do.  


“All of you.”  


“There is a lot of me,” he teased, leaning forward, planting small kisses on her exposed collarbone, running his hands up her back.  


She was unrelenting. “I want,” she murmured, and he tilted his head back up, finding himself, against all odds, waiting until she found what she wanted to say.  


He knew it wasn’t going to work, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to ask her then, “What is it you most desire, Chloe Decker?”  


She found the words, and for a moment he felt as though his gift had worked, finally. “I want something of you no one else has had before,” she finished, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, the stubble rough against the smooth skin of her face. His skin was still cool from the night air, but hers was burning. He hadn’t expected the answer, though.  


He breathed in her words, her exhale, desperate to get closer, desperate for him to be inside her, he didn’t care how.  


He pulled away enough to go to her ear. She exposed her neck to him, and he pulled the hair away, kissing the exposed skin, pulling the earlobe with his teeth, pulling from her gasps and small, shocked moans.  


He stopped, allowing her – and him – to catch her breath. She felt his shoulders stiffen beneath her, and leaned her face against his, waiting.  


She waited for a long time while he fought with himself, gently nuzzling her face against his, against his neck. There was nowhere she had to be. Not tonight.  


“Samael,” he whispered in her ear, a word he hadn’t said to anyone in a millennia. It made his insides feel like light, burning against his skin, hollow and flaming and naked. It fell from his mouth like the moment before the fall, the eternal moment he looked back at the Silver City for the last time, the moment the sword fell from his hands and he toppled over the edge. A moment of rage, of intense grief, of wind at his back and nothing but darkness below.  


“Samael,” he whispered again, his hands making their way to her back, tugging her closer, tight against his body as if she could ground him, keep him from falling further.  
She felt the hot tears trail over her shoulder and ran her hands up the back of his neck, into his hair.  


“Samael,” she repeated, flush against his ear. His fingernails suddenly dug into her back. “Beautiful,” she purred.  


“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t.”  


She nodded slightly, and he felt it against his cheek. She pulled back slowly, trailing her nose to his, and caught his mouth in a light kiss. “You are,” she breathed against him. “Beautiful.”  


His eyes were shut tightly. “Lucifer,” she asked, and he opened them, lids heavy. “Thank you.”  


She felt like she had a piece of him no one else did, now, no matter how many people he gave himself away to, no matter how much he shared with the world.  


She had this, a name, and held it close to her heart.  


Inside her heart would be more accurate, perhaps. Inside where no one else could see. It would be safe with her.  


She used her knees to push against him slightly and he scooted further backward onto the bed.


	5. She Kissed Him and He Forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe and Lucifer share a bed.

Lucifer understood sex. He understood the mechanics of it, the who and where, the why and when and most certainly the how and was only scratching the surface, he felt, at the potential whats.  


He understood, intimately, what people most desired, and he gave it to them the best he could. (Judging by the amount of people telling him it was the best they ever had, it seemed his best was above the rest.)  


Sex was easy, and fun, and there was joy and simplicity in the thrust, in the orgasm and scratching and tongues in all sorts of places.  


But when Chloe Decker kissed him, straddling him on his own bed, the bed where he had so many partners he could fill several notebooks with their names, he suddenly forgot what sex was.  


She kissed him and he forgot.  


She surrounded him, filling his nose with a perfume or body wash or something that was uniquely her, something he couldn’t replicate if given all the perfumes in the world.  


Her hands trailed on his back and he pushed the back of her shirt out of the way so his bare hands laid flat on the bare skin of her back and his mind went blank at the contact.  


He pulled away from her then, teetering just on the edge of falling over and pulling her down with him.  


“Are you okay?” she asked, and her bright blue eyes seemed so out of place with the darkness he inhabited. She was sunlight and warmth and golden rays and he was moonlight and raw and the ocean at night, leviathans swirling deep down in the dark.  


His dazed expression must have been enough for her, because she slowly unhitched a leg from him and crawled onto the bed herself, pulling a sheet back and kicking off her shoes.  


He watched with apparent fascination as her boots fell, and she patted the space next to her.  


“Are you inviting me into bed, detective?” he finally asked, and she smiled, a half-crooked grin, happy to see him coming back to himself.  


“Maybe just this once,” she teased. He scooted himself backward into the spot she wanted, on her right side. He laid on his side and traced a finger around the freckles on her exposed arm.  


“Are you still planning on leaving?” she asked quietly, her eyelids beginning to become heavy in the darkness.  


“No,” he reassured her. “I don’t think I can.”  


“’hat’s good,” she mumbled into the pillow, and he watched her fall asleep easily, slipping into the darkness as if it were the easiest thing in the world.  


Perhaps it was, because he found himself tumbling into slumber after her.

She awoke first, the breeze from the open balcony doors, so inviting last night, becoming rapidly too chilly. Chloe tucked her arms further down under her comforter, berating herself for leaving the window open, when she felt a warm hand – she hoped it was a hand – at her side.  


She shimmied upright and realized it was only just beginning to be day, the dusty light fading in through the windows in the living room of Lucifer’s apartment.  


And Lucifer, snoring gently into the pillow at her side.  


She experimentally moved her leg into his and felt fabric. So he was wearing pants. That’s probably the best thing that could have happened to her right now.  


His back was to her and he held a pillow tightly in his arms. Her movement caused him to stir slightly, and she held her breath, hoping not to wake him and be suddenly bombarded with jokes and innuendo and explanations and –  


Samael.  


Oh.  


A closer look on his back revealed two scythe-like scars, as white as they had been the first time she saw them, and no other marks. Whatever they had done had helped.  


Chloe squinted to read the clock in the other room and knew she had to go. She hadn’t planned on spending the night, and though Trixie was sleeping over for one of her friend’s birthdays she still needed to be home when she was dropped off in the morning.  


And that time was rapidly approaching.  


Chloe leaned over and placed a hand between his shoulder blades to wake him. She leaned over and shook him a little.  


“Lucifer.”  


Barely a grumble.  


“Lucifer, I have to go.”  


He mumbled into his pillow. “Mm, ‘k, love.” She leaned back as he lifted a few fingers off, waving goodbye. “Toodles.”  


Toodles, Christ. He was going to be hearing that one again, soon.  


She planted a small, lingering kiss just below his neck and was gone.

Lucifer easily drifted back off into the most restful sleep he had had in well, ages. His body was sore and in the best way, like he had been fucked six ways to Sunday – and while he’d tried to find out what that entailed, exactly, his experiments hadn’t left him feeling this satisfied. He stretched out both legs and tumbled onto his back, feeling for whatever partner for the evening may still be there and he could thank them for their services.  


Properly, he hoped, the muscles protesting at the movement.  


Feeling no one, he continued to roll until his face was on the other pillow, and he breathed in and found himself smiling and it was –  


Chloe.  


Oh.  


Now he was awake.  


He opened one eye and glanced around the room for any signs, but all was quiet and only a bit of sunlight filtered in, leaving the corners of the other room in shadow. His eyes drifted over the piano and the full ashtray and he remembered sitting there, could see it like a movie really, as she entered and asked and he showed her and she stayed.  


She stayed.  


But not for very long.  


He sighed and decided now was as good a time as any to finally take that shower he so desperately needed and take a look at what she had done to him.  


Which, as he twisted around in the mirror, was heal him. He took in a deep breath and leaned over the sink once more, shifting into his real face.  


But he didn’t change, only his eyes blazing.  


He leaned back and tried again, to the same result.  


Perhaps she had helped too much.


	6. You Smell Like Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maze discovers what Lucifer's been hiding. And she's determined to fix the problem herself.

Lucifer waltzed forward into the crime scene, bypassing several uniformed officers would be more than happy to do some offering of their own, lifting the “caution” tape above his head and calling out for his detective.  
Focusing on finding her in the influx of people hanging about the body – really, he never understood why there was always so much fuss over a single dead person – he completely missed the pool of blood a forensic intern was just about to mark with a numbered evidence marker.  
So, naturally, his perfectly shined designer shoe went right into the congealing substance.  
That was quite a lot of blood, actually.  
The intern, holding the marker, gasped, and that was enough to make several heads turn toward his direction – and see the Devil himself holding a now blood-soaked foot in the air.  
He exhaled, exasperated, and shot the intern a look. She smartly ran back over to the white forensic van while Detective Decker huffed over to him.  
He stared at her, eyebrows raised and gesturing toward his foot. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.  
“Take it off,” she told him, grabbing an elbow and steering him, hopping, backwards, past the tape. “You’re ruining evidence.” She motioned to someone behind him for an evidence bag.  
“Hardly,” he argued. “If you wanted me undressed–”  
She turned her head toward him at that. “Please.”  
“Just putting my best foot forward, detective,” smiling as she put on neoprene gloves. “You know, if you ever wanted to bring those over –“  
The increasingly frustrated detective stuck his hand on her shoulder and gingerly removed the shoe, bagging it for later testing.  
“Now?” he asked, placing a socked foot on the concrete.  
“Now you go home.”  
He opened his mouth and she shut it by holding up a finger. “I can’t have you here prancing around half-dressed.”  
“I most certainly don’t ‘prance,’” he started, but she was already turning and walking back to her colleagues, leaving Lucifer feeling entirely too desperate for her attention.  
“I’ll be getting that back, soon,” he told the officer holding his bagged shoe, and carefully walked back to his car.  
“Don’t know what all the bother is about,” he hollered back to the crowd. “A little blood never upset the Devil.”

Chloe texted him later that morning about the case, which involved a whole lot of blood – yes, that he remembered – and a whole lot less of a body.  
Pretty much just parts. Not even parts. Just bits. 

Viscera? He texted.  
Yeah. Just bits. Blood. Bone fragments.  
Strange  
Hard to make a murder case when theres no body

He paused at the last one, entering his flat to Mazikeen, leaning against his piano in what could only be described as a killer ensemble: boots, black leather shorts, red halter. A favorite.  
“Morning,” he told her, and she only glared as he entered the room, fiddling with his cuffs. “What’s new, Maze? Usually you’re not conscious at this hour.”  
“I was waiting for you,” she explained. He made his way over the bar and upturned two glasses.  
“Appreciate it, really, I do love having you worry about me. Makes me worry about me less.”  
“I noticed.” Her words raced through the air, biting. Her white teeth bared, unconsciously, as she spoke. “So when were you going to tell me about your little problem?”  
“Problem?” he asked, drawing it out of her. She could be referring to anything. He filled the glasses with bourbon – it was still early, after all – and lifted his knee to show her his lack of shoe. “Not the first time I’ve lost clothing.”  
She waited for him to finish his avoidance tactic and took the glass, setting it on the piano without a drink. He sat at the bench and turned toward her.  
“I don’t care about your shoe. I’m concerned about your body.”  
He lifted the cover to the keys and smiled. “My body? Dear. How could I –”  
His voice was rapidly cut off by a quick fist the face, so fast he didn’t register what happened until he was lifting himself back up.  
“Mazi –”  
Another hit, a jab into his ribs.  
He stood then, pushing the bench backward. She was unrelenting, following his every move. She stomped on his bare foot and he grabbed his knee, lifting the foot away from her.  
“Maze!” he hollered. She hit him again, square in the face, and he fell over the bar.  
Though it afforded him the opportunity to grab a mostly empty bottle. He swung it around and tried to hit her in the head with it, but was slow enough she ducked and he was suddenly off-balance, stomach in the bar.  
She shoved her weight against him then, pinning him from the back. She glared up at him and shifted to the side to see him in the still-intact mirror.  
“Show me,” she demanded. He struggled against her.  
“Show you what, you insufferable –” he twisted and she held fast.  
“Your face,” she asked easily, as though she wasn’t out of breath. “Now.”  
“Maze, I don’t see –”  
She kneed him in the back of the thigh and he dropped slightly. She moved her hand to hold his and started pulling backward on his middle finger. She raised her eyebrows and stared at him in the mirror.  
The ring threatened to come loose in her grip, and he stopped struggling.  
“You could just ask, you know.”  
She shrugged. “More fun.”  
“Let me go,” he asked her reflection, and she complied.  
He turned and leaned against the bar, rubbing the back of his thigh. She crossed her arms and didn’t move an inch.  
“Well?”  
He took in a deep breath. “Listen, things haven’t exactly been the same lately,” he started.  
“Do it or I knee you again.”  
Raising his hands defensively, he managed to flash his eyes red.  
“More.”  
“There’s no reason –” he said, and she raised a quick fist.  
Hands stay up, then. Right.  
“I can’t,” he told her.  
She moved away, finally, smacking her hand on the bar. “I knew it.”  
He watched her and she walked away, pointing at him, grabbing her drink off the piano. “You’ve been avoiding me. And you’re scent is all wrong.”  
“I smell fine, thank you.”  
“You smell clean.”  
“I do try –”  
“Clean like them,” she emphasized. She downed her drink. “It’s disgusting.”  
“That’s very good stuff you’re inhaling.”  
“What did she do to you?”  
“Who?” he asked innocently, turning back around to the bar and grabbing a fresh glass.  
In a flash Mazikeen was back over, smashing her glass into his temple.  
“Vulnerable, now this?” she yelled, leaning over him. “I won’t allow her to make you weak.”  
Lucifer rubbed his temple carefully. Only Maze could draw blood from him when the detective wasn’t around.  
“It’s pathetic,” she finished, standing tall. He followed suit, towering over her. His eyes flashed hellfire again, and she sneered, sauntering back over to the elevator.  
Just as the doors closed, she told him something that made him angrier than when she was attacking him.  
“I’ll take care of it. For you.”

After filling an empty glass with ice and holding it to his temple, he stood in the bar, and decided to text Decker back, finally.

So something happened  
She texted back instantly, and he smiled a little at that. What happened  
Maze. She might be upset  
Upset? Over what  
He paused at that one, and the phone vibrated again in his hand. Now  
At you, he told her. Always so demanding.  
I’m waiting for forensics to get back to me w/ Dna. Come to house?  
On my way

The sun still shone brightly when he waltzed up to the Decker residence and knocked, bouncing on his heels, his temple still throbbing slightly from Maze’s direct hit.  
The child opened the door and ambushed him on the porch while her mother’s voice rang out. “Trixie, what did I tell you about opening the door?”  
The child ran back inside after a smile and rang out loudly, “But it’s Lucifer!”  
Chloe emerged from the downstairs bathroom as he closed the door behind him. He inhaled a bit at her relaxed state, especially considering a black eye was threatening to emerge on him.  
Now, alone – save for the child, who stood between them, beaming – he was suddenly very aware of what he had told her the night before, in the dark.  
She crossed the distance to Trixie and placed her hands on the child’s shoulders, bending to speak in her ear, telling her to get the drawing she made to show Lucifer.  
She squeaked happily and ran into her room and Chloe moved closer. He stood rooted in place, shoulders back, mouth open as though about to speak.  
Chloe noticed the tension and opted for moving into the kitchen, giving him space. She pulled a drink from the refrigerator and he calmed enough to move into the dining area.  
“So Maze is mad?” she asked.  
He breathed out. “Yes, well. It’s my fault, really.”  
She opened the drink and looked at him, listening.  
“But she’s blaming you.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“So. I tried damage control but she’s not in a very listening frame of mind right now. Which is also kind of my fault as well? I made her that way. Easier not to listen to the screams of the damned when you don’t bloody well care.”  
Chloe took a long drink, thinking, while Trixie burst back into the room brandishing a piece of colored construction paper. She shoved it into Lucifer’s stomach and he huffed at the force of it.  
Great. Even children were hurting him now.  
“It’s you and Mommy,” she told him, “And me and Daddy. We’re outside, see?” She pulled the paper away, revealing four figures and several fluffy trees. “In the sunshine.”  
Lucifer picked himself out pretty easily. She had colored him in a black suit.  
He looked to Chloe for advice, but she offered none.  
“Is it good?” he asked her. She raised her eyebrows toward her daughter – talk to her, you moron – and he shifted focus back to Trixie. “It’s very good.”  
“Good I thought you’d like it. It’s for you. You can put it on your fridge at your house.”  
“Trix, honey, why don’t you work on one for the fridge here?” Chloe asked, and the child nodded and left Lucifer hanging onto the picture while she headed back into her room to color.  
“Do I have to hang –”  
“Yes.”  
“Ah.”  
A too-long moment of silence passed between them.  
“Maze?” Chloe asked again, and Lucifer was startled, having been busy replaying the moments last night back inside his head.  
“She thinks you’re changing me,” he forced out.  
She tilted her head. “What do you think?”  
He rolled his eyes and walked toward the door. “Have you and my therapist been chatting? Exactly the same.”  
“Should I be worried?” she asked.  
“I –” he started, and was quickly cut off by the front door slamming open into his face, knocking him backwards onto the floor.  
His demon stood in the door, brandishing her knives, unaware of Lucifer’s presence.  
“You and I need to have a chat,” she told the detective, and Chloe grabbed for her gun – which she had taken off when she got home.  
Maze took another step forward and Lucifer kicked the door, hitting her on the side, the door swinging wildly.  
It was enough for Chloe to run and shut the door to Trixie’s room while the lord of Hell and his right-hand demon squared off in her living room.


	7. Becoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maze comes by the Decker residence. Chloe asks Lucifer if he'd like to stay the night.

“Oh, you’re here,” Maze snarled at Lucifer as he lifted himself off the floor. “Of course you are. Wherever she is –” Maze pointed the end of a demon blade toward the detective, which Lucifer very quickly put himself in front of “– there you are.”  
“I’m not doing this again, Mazikeen,” he warned.  
A small voice escaped from under the closed door. “Mommy?” it asked.  
“Stay inside, baby,” Chloe told her.   
“Do what again? Let me kick your ass?”  
Lucifer had backed up to the detective, completely blocking his demon’s view. Chloe put her hands on his back to keep him from running over her completely.  
Her touch seemed to strengthen him. His muscles tensed under her hands, and he leaned forward slightly.  
Maze spun her blades as though bored.  
“Lucifer,” Chloe whispered. “Not here. Please.”  
He snarled – God, she felt him snarl though her hands – and his eyes blazed red. “You’re leaving now,” he told the demon.  
“Or what?”  
He left Chloe behind and marched to Maze, getting in her face. She didn’t budge, but didn’t attack, either.  
The lights in the room seemed to bend in toward him, as though he was dragging it with him when he walked.  
“You will listen to me,” he said slowly.   
Maze opened her mouth, ran her tongue along the back of the top of her teeth. She couldn’t deny his power.  
She just needed to see it. Make sure it was still there.  
“Get out.”  
She spared a glance over Lucifer’s shoulder and pointed her knives toward Decker once again.  
“Hurt him and I will kill you.”  
In that moment, Chloe understood.  
Maze left then, stepping out the door without a second glance.

Chloe opened Trixie’s bedroom door and stepped inside to check on her while Lucifer stared out the door, watching Maze leave. He shut the door carefully – nothing broke on it, that much was good – and turned to see a frightened Trixie standing in her doorway.  
He remembered to breathe, then. He wasn’t about to listen to a crying child.  
Chloe stepped out, a hand on her child’s shoulder.   
“Everything’s fine, monkey,” she told her. “Lucifer had a visitor.”  
Trixie nodded, but remained wide-eyed.  
“Thanks for the warning,” Chloe told him, and he finally managed to squeeze his face into something resembling a smile.  
“I’ll speak with her further.”  
The detective nodded.  
He stepped toward her. “Could you come again?”   
Her face softened. He wanted nothing but to see that gentleness on her face again. “Trixie’s with me all week,” she smiled down at her daughter, who was relaxing under her hand.   
Lucifer stepped backward, toward the door, an “I understand,” on his lips.  
“But,” she started. “If you want. You can stay here. If only to get a break from… her.”  
He shifted his weight and nodded. “That might not be a bad idea.”  
“Tonight?”  
He smiled then, and turned the doorknob, one last look back at the Madonna and child in his life.  
That evening, Lucifer drove down the darkened California highway toward the Decker residence. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, enjoying the sensation of smoke filling his lungs, the heat he exhaled mixing with the cool night air.  
Beautiful people around the city were dolling themselves up, driving to clubs, partying until dawn.  
Lucifer Morningstar dressed down, flicked his cigarette out the car, and looked forward to a quiet night in with all the glee he had felt the first time he played the piano for a crowd at Lux.  
Nervous, a little. Being surrounded by people made him feel a little out of his element, even now, a few years in.  
As personable as he was, as intriguing and open to new things and an ever-changing and dynamic dance card he had, the feeling of being alone always hovered over him, threatening to swoop in between himself and another body and remind him that what he was looking for wasn’t there.  
No matter how close he pressed their bodies together.  
Lucifer turned down the music, parked in the driveway, and knocked on the front door gently as he could. If the child was asleep, he had no intention of waking her.  
Really for his own benefit, that one.  
Chloe answered the door, glad in striped pink pajama shorts and a thin, dark gray t-shirt. The television was on, a documentary playing softly in the background.  
He stepped inside.  
“Hey,” she said. “I was hoping you’d be over.”  
“What would change my mind?” he asked, and she turned her face away shyly, not answering.   
“Drink?” she asked.  
“I’m alright,” he told her.   
“Now I know you’re not okay.”  
He smiled at the floor at that, feeling strangely lanky and uncomfortable in her presence.  
She touched his arm. “Relax. Trixie’s been asleep for a while.”  
She walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. “Are you tired?” she asked.  
He nodded, and glanced toward the couch.   
“Come upstairs.”  
He went back to the door, kicked off his shoes, and followed her up the steps to her bedroom.   
He stopped short, at her bedroom door. She realized he was no longer following her inside, and turned to see why. He was holding onto the doorframe.   
“I’m sorry,” he began. “For last night. I shouldn’t have made you see me like that.”  
She set the glass down on the end table and took one of his hands off the frame, walking him toward the bed.  
“I don’t want you to feel like…” he trailed off, sitting.  
“Like I owe you something?”  
He nodded. Her hand was still holding his.  
“You didn’t make me do anything,” she reminded him. “I came over. Free will and all that.”  
He remained silent, thinking of her crying at his disfigurement.  
“Yes, but,” he began, but she stopped him.  
“No ‘buts.’ I saw you. I wanted to know, and now I know. Yeah, I was scared.” He looked into her face, dark eyes soft in the lamplight. “Terrified, really. Seeing you so…”  
“Ugly?” he offered.  
Her eyes widened at that.  
“Hurt,” she finished. He flipped her hand over in his and trailed his fingers down her palm.   
“Is it always that bad?” she whispered.  
He exhaled quickly, almost a laugh. “No. Usually I can forget about it. Enough booze and it fades.”  
She relaxed.  
“Do you know why? It showed up suddenly?”  
“I don’t know. I think someone was trying to make me vulnerable. Or make me leave.” He brought his other hand up to her face. “But you took it away.”  
His hand dropped away. “Almost all of it, actually.”  
“Is that what Maze was talking about?”  
He nodded. Chloe got up to close the door, and stood in front of him after. He looked up at her, eyes searching.  
“Are you afraid?” she asked, and he huffed.   
“Me? Afraid? Of what?”  
She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he raised his hands slowly, placing them on her hips, pulling her closer toward him, widening his knees so she could fit between them. His hands wandered up to her lower back and held her there.  
“Becoming.”  
His eyes continued asking questions while she moved a knee over his leg. He lifted her slightly so she could straddle him again. That was when she had his full attention.  
“Becoming?” he asked. “What?”  
Chloe lowered her face to his and their noses met. He closed his eyes, breathing her in.   
That loneliness faded when he was with her.   
“Something more.”


	8. Hungry to be Part of that Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer stays the night at Chloe's house. In Chloe's bed.  
> They seek comfort in one another, and find it.

If you had told Chloe Decker two months ago that she would have been straddling the Devil in her own bedroom she would have kindly escorted you to a holding cell. And if you had told her that she was the one who put him there, between her legs – well. Perhaps a nice white jacket for you, too.

But two months ago wasn’t two nights ago. 

Lucifer would have told her, in a heartbeat, that her touch would help him. It probably would have been followed by a quick look up and down and a purse of his lips. Tonight he could only look upon her as a moth looks toward a flame.

Hungry to be part of that light.

They kissed then, unhurried. Her hands touched his neck, his face. He gripped her thighs, pulled her closer to him, ran his hands along her legs to her fine, pert ass – That backside which had sassily walked away from him so many times, which she had told him on more than one occasion to kiss, was suddenly completely in his grip. And clad only in very thin pajama shorts.

Lucifer liked.

Leisurely kisses suddenly picked up a greater pace, lips eager to find one another, tongues testing one another.

A breath hitched, Lucifer wasn’t sure whose.  
A hand dipped into the back of a waistband.  
A mouth found a neck.  
A tongue found skin.

Lucifer fell once more, pulling his lover down with him.

Chloe eased herself down, straightening her legs, shifting to lay by Lucifer’s side, her mouth never leaving his. His warm hands tucked beneath her shirt, finding her braless, his warm, broad hands covering and cupping her breasts, and she moved her leg to cover his, opening her body to his.

She pulled her hands back from him and he missed the warmth immediately, opening his eyes fearfully at her sudden departure. She sat up slightly, tugging off her shirt, throwing it on the floor. Lucifer grabbed a wrist and moved himself on top of her, pushing down, needing tension, needing something to move against.

She moved like water beneath him, slotting into his crevices as if she were made to be there. 

He held her wrists together above her head as though afraid she would bolt, and she let him, understanding. His other hand roamed down her body, sinking his fingers under the flimsy material of her shorts, slowly tugging them down. She lifted her hips and he let go of her wrists, moving down her body, kissing her chest, her eager nipples, so needing to be in his mouth, his nimble fingers rubbing over the front of her rapidly dampening panties.

A whine escaped her lips, and he looked up at her, dark eyes searching, his mouth only having just reached her belly button. 

Chloe sat up then, forcing him upward, and wound her fingers in his shirt, untucking it from his slacks. He sat back on his heels, her head at his stomach, and closed his eyes as she unbuttoned it from the bottom up. Each bit of new skin she revealed was covered by a kiss, her fingers dexterous, and soon she was easing the shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor.

She took a moment to admire him then, fingertips trailing across the hard clavicle, the tight waist, the quick V tucking itself down in a darkly-colored desire trail, her hands roaming over his hips, his waist, and reaching his lower back, pulling him back down.

His mouth quickly made it back to her toned stomach and downward, breathing deeply the heady scent of her desire. He mouthed her through her panties, teasing, and she arched her back against the bed, gasping deliciously against the sensation. A quick shimmy and he was out of his pants, releasing a straining erection, feeling surprised at how wet his own silken boxers were becoming.

They were only kissing, really, and it was the most aroused he’s ever felt.

A glance up at her, open mouthed and begging. A nod, a lifting of hips, and suddenly he was mouth to skin, hot breath against her pleading clit. He circled the tip of his tongue around it, sliding one finger easily in and out of her slickness, adding another soon after, moving her into his mouth, sucking gently, pulling her to him, pulling sounds out of her he’s never heard from her before.

He removed his fingers slowly, replacing them with his deft tongue, alternating between long, flat swipes up and down, and gentle, insistent probing.

Chloe gripped her pillow for dear life, feeling the warm coil building beneath her, pushing itself to the surface.

Lucifer wrapped his hand around her thigh and, when she moaned his name, gripped it tightly. He added two fingers back into her, not daring to break contact, and groaned into her, feeling her muscles inside clenching against him.

She reached down, gripping his hair firmly, breathing unevenly, and he moaned, and she came, and he felt the pulsing on his fingers as he continued to rock her through it and it was his name on her lips and that was nearly enough for him, too.

He kissed her thighs then, warm, lazy kisses trailing back up to her stomach, and she stilled his fingers still inside her, too sensitive for movement. She tried to get her breathing under control, but as he slid back up her body she felt his hardness against her, and a fresh rush of blood pushed itself downward.

As he moved up she slid her hands downward, palming his cock through the light fabric. He tucked his head into her neck, moaning as she moved experimentally. She could feel the cooling precum soaking through the cloth, her hand warming it. He tucked his hands beneath her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to toward him, then turned so she was lying on top.

Easily she straddled his thighs, just far enough away that he tried pulling her up, but she shook her head gently, and bent over, kissing his lips, his neck, his chest, her fingers playing with a nipple.

She slid forward then, allowing her wetness to rub against his straining, clothed cock, and he closed his eyes then, pushing his head into the pillow.

She scooted backward, trailing open-mouthed kisses down his stomach, swiftly pulling his boxers down his legs. He kicked them off and she left a kiss on the shining tip before wrapping her hand around the shaft, covering the head with her hot, wet mouth.

She sucked then, pulsing her hand up and down with enough pressure to make him beg for more with his eyes, and her big blue eyes met his as she hollowed her mouth and took him then, sliding her flat tongue along the underside. 

He gripped the headboard instead her hair, afraid of holding her too tightly, biting his bottom lip, groaning obscenely. 

She dipped and pulled, head bobbing, eyes closed, enjoying the fullness in her mouth until he hit the headboard with a fist, and she looked up toward him, and he bent his knees, pushing her off his swollen and begging cock. She pulled off, trailing a flat tongue upward, and he gazed upon her with nearly black eyes and a hungry mouth.

She pushed her hands upward on his body to his neck, and pulled her towards him. He sat up easily, shifting forward to kiss her. She lowered herself on him then, so slick and wet from before that she took him in easily, and he shut his eyes against her chest with a gasp at the sudden tightness while she threw her head back, her hands holding onto the back of his neck.

They breathed against one another, lips hovering, her body adjusting to the sudden fullness of him inside her, until she pressed against him experimentally and they both moaned.

He was already too close, and she hadn’t even moved yet.

His legs were cold from the inside, as though full of nervous energy, and he wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, to keep her from moving too thoroughly and him losing it before they even really began.

She sensed him pulsing inside her, just this side of coming, and her body reacted to his need with a new rush of wetness. She forced herself to still against him, pulling her thighs tightly against him, kissing his neck, biting his ear, breathing heavily, roaming her hands against his back, along the edges of his scars.

None of this was really helping him, of course, but she wanted him, and she needed him to know that.

A few breaths more and he calmed enough that he began to kiss her back in earnest, loosening his grip, allowing his hands to grip her ass. She panted against his neck at his touch, and he flipped her over onto her back.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and arched her back, his engorged cock pushing into her most sensitive spots as he began to thrust, slowly at first, picking up the pace when her fingernails dug into his back.

He moved a hand back down to her center warmth, splitting his fingers to rub against the outside of her labia, pressing the wet lips against his thrusting shaft. He then rubbed his thumb over her clit in small circles, feeling her muscles quivering around him. She moved in time with his thrusts, then became more erratic, and he knew she was coming when she bit down hard on his neck, stifling a moan.

The bite had him trembling against her and she knew he was close, his movements inconsistent and needy. His eyes were shut tightly. She placed her hands on either side of his face and put her nose to his, her legs loosely tucked around his back. She kissed him lightly, his lips pliant against her. 

His eyes fluttered open and met hers, and she gazed upon him with such love it hurt his chest, knowing he wasn't worth it.

She closed her eyes again and he tucked his head into her neck as she sighed his name in his ear, running her fingers through his hair.

“Come for me,” she asked, and he whimpered against her skin, his thrusts deeper now, searching. “I need you,” she breathed, and his body released. She felt him pulsing inside her, his come soaking her, trailing down her inner thighs.

Eventually, he stilled against her and she allowed her legs to relax down from his back, and when he tried to move off her, she held fast. She felt him smile against her neck at that, and ran a hand down his back, allowing him to pull out of her a few moments later.

He laid next to her on his back, holding her hand in his, unable to not be touching her in that moment.

She shifted to her side to face him, her body humming and soon to be sore with the ache of him. 

He smiled shyly at her, embracing the silence, running his fingers down her arm, like that first night they spent together.

As sleep overtook them both, the last image on his mind was her looking upon him as though he were beautiful and worthy, as though he was the angel he used to be.

 

For the first time in his eternal life, the Devil made love.


	9. French Toast It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer wakes up and freaks out.  
> Something new has taken away something old.

The cool sheets around him suddenly felt constricting. A wave of blonde hair trailed over his pillow, and he brushed it gently out of the way. Chloe’s hair. Her bed.

Lucifer must have wrapped himself up in the night, twisting the sheet around him. He quickly unwound himself, probably too roughly, for Chloe sighed and turned from her back to her side, facing away from him.

He watched for her for a moment standing next to the bed. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and his thoughts were all on her, not waking up.

Not waking up. He needed her awake. And conscious. Was she alright? She seemed at peace. She was breathing fine.

He snapped his discarded boxers off the floor and nearly fell over as he leaned, his legs cold and numb and wobbling. He tugged them on, hopping toward the bathroom.

The bathroom light was too bright, and fell on Chloe’s face before he had a chance to shut the door. She felt herself pulled out of slumber, and raised a forearm to cover her eyes. The light was on in the bathroom, and the bed next to her was still warm. She relaxed, reaching over to check her phone on the nightstand. The DNA results had come back, and Ella texted her to come into the station around 9 for the most up to date information. She reached over the side of the bed and retrieved her panties and night shirt. It was only 6:32am, but she was sore, and didn’t want her nakedness to be such a blatant invitation to Lucifer’s libido.

Lucifer leaned against the sink, his back to the mirror, hands covering his face, trying to control his breathing. His body was too hot, a sensation he thought he would be used to by now, but he felt as though steam was rising from his body, and he couldn’t rid himself of the thought of Chloe not waking up, even though he knew she was fine, just in the other room.

He dragged a hand along his face, feeling more stubble than he’d like, and turned his head to see the side of his face, to check on what must be a hickey on the side of his neck. He caught of glimpse of his back as he turned, and stopped cold, twisting at the waist for a better look.

A few stray red marks from her nails. A dark red hickey near his collarbone. And no scars. He reached an arm across his body to feel where they should be, and felt nothing but normal skin beneath. 

He must have been staring for a while because a knock at the door caused him to jump. 

“Lucifer, I know you like to look your best, but I swear if you’re using my toothbrush…”

“All’s fine, love,” he spoke through the door, then leaned his forehead against the cool wood. He suddenly, desperately, needed to see her. He pulled away and threw open the door, trying to put on an innocent smile.

Chloe’s head shot up at his sudden presence, and narrowed her eyes at his odd smile. She looked into the bathroom, then back to him. His closed-lipped smile was suspicious.

“Okay,” she drew out, and ran a hand along his waist. He jerked at her touch as though it were unexpected, but she was simply moving him away from the door so she could get through. 

He turned, keeping his front toward her at all times. Her eyes narrowed when he walked backward to retrieve his trousers and shirt off the floor, bunching them in his hands, his posture stiff and unyielding. None of the fluidity she saw last night.

“We’re due at the station this morning,” she told him, and his eyebrows raised. “There’s time for breakfast, though.”

He stood monument-still, eyebrows to the sky, clutching his clothes.

She began to close the door. “If you, you know. Could get that started. I want that omelet,” she teased, and he didn’t move again until he heard water running.

Suddenly he was shoving himself into his clothes, nearly tripping over his pant legs as he bolted out the bedroom, hitting the stairs so loudly Chloe heard it over her shower.

Trixie’s bedroom door was open, but that didn’t register to him until he tried walking past and was suddenly ambushed by a pink-pajama clad child, her questions flung up at him like Maze’s blades.

His body was stiff, the front of his shirt sitting lopsided from being buttoned wrong, the zipper on his pants only halfway up, sockless on the bare wood floor, eyeing the front door like it was his salvation. He patted the child’s messy hair twice before pushing down on her head gently and trying to move her away.

She straightened her arms and looked up into his face, her smile radiant. He softened slightly at that. His running had been a reflex, a flight response. He ruled over hell, and a woman was making him run.

Special woman, then. A smile poked through, and Trixie thought it must be directed at her. 

“What are you making for breakfast?” she asked. “I like French toast but Mommy says it mostly the syrup part so she doesn’t make it a lot.”

He patted the top of her head again, remembering to breathe. This time he didn’t try to shove her off. 

Her wide eyes looked upon him, innocent and asking. He relented. He definitely needed to add children-like beasts to the rotation downstairs. So manipulating. “French toast it is, then, child. Go put some decent clothes on. You look ridiculous.” Trixie laughed and ran back into her room, closing the door.

He breathed, then, a huge inhale, laughing as he exhaled, shoving his fingers through his hair. Breakfast was all the Decker women had asked him for. Nothing more. And breakfast he could do, easily.

Lucifer rolled his shoulders back, feeling no familiar ache. He could worry about that later. For now he straightened his clothing as he walked into the kitchen, untucking his shirt and redoing all the buttons. 

By the time Chloe emerged dressed for work in a dark, striped t-shirt tucked into the front of black jeans, her hair in a low bun, Lucifer was leaning over the counter, sliding French toast out of the pan and into the plate of her beaming child, who was practically bouncing in her seat.

His hair was messy and curling around his neck, sleeves rolled up, and barefoot, and he was telling her daughter to wait a moment before eating because the food was probably too hot. Trixie held in her hands a fork and knife and nodded, watching the stream rising.

Lucifer noticed Chloe and held the spatula in front of him, surprised. 

“Aren’t you domestic,” she teased, and walked over, leaning over him to smell the warm breakfast he had made, omelet forgotten. He tensed at her presence, and Trixie watched with eager eyes. 

He offered a low, uncomfortable laugh when she straightened up, her face near his, and he turned quickly, grabbing another plate and a cup for coffee and basically anything he could get his hands on that wasn’t her.

Chloe met Trixie’s eyes, turning to look at Lucifer’s back with narrow, suspicious eyes, before looking into hers again, and Trixie laughed at her mother’s antics.

“Eat, monkey,” she told her. Trixie dug in, syrup immediately covering nearly half her face.

Chloe took a seat next to her and Lucifer slid a few pieces of the French toast onto her plate. Before he pulled away, she touched his bare forearm lightly, telling him “Thank you.”

His eyes met hers, then her fingers on his skin, then fell to the floor as he turned and began to clean up.

“You’re not having any?” she asked between mouthfuls.

He had forgotten about himself. “No, no. Not really hungry,” he told her. And he wasn’t.

She shrugged, and told Trixie to get her schoolbag ready, the child having wolfed down her breakfast.

With Trixie out of sight, Chloe said his name. He hummed in response, busying himself with putting ingredients away. 

She said it again, and reached over, stilling his vanilla-extract holding hand.

“You’re being weird,” she told him. He remained silent. “Why don’t you go home first. Meet me at the station later.”

He nodded, and she let go. He missed her touch immediately, breathing out as her warmth left him. She smiled and wiped a bit of syrup from her bottom lip with her thumb and he leaned over, catching her lips in a light kiss.

She leaned into it gently, but he pulled away, leaving the kitchen, shoving on his shoes. He was out the door before she could ask another question.


	10. The Curious Case of Spontaneous Combustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer realizes Chloe's case and his weakness are connected.

Chloe strolled into the station, winding through the building to homicide, grabbing some more coffee and several files on her way. Ella met her in the central area, and both women walked into the forensics lab together, the pathologist excitedly informing the detective that she’s really never seen anything like this before, that this case was already kicking the ass of forensic consultants up and down the coast.

Chloe remembered the grisly crime scene of what had been unaffectionally dubbed around the precinct as The Curious Case of Spontaneous Combustion. “Curious” wasn’t a quite strong enough word. Neither was combustion. 

DNA results confirmed that 63 year old male accountant Michael Pierce walked into the public parking area after leaving the Orpheum Theater at 11:40pm Saturday evening and exploded from the inside out, smattering everything with assorted body parts for a twelve foot radius.

Including the puddle Lucifer had managed to compromise, just by gracing the crime scene with his appearance.

Ella noticed the detective’s mind trailing, and waited patiently, a small smile of her face, until she came back.  
“So, anything new?” she asked. “Anything… going on?”  
“Nope,” Chloe told her, shaking her head. “Absolutely not.”  
Ella hummed and tilted her head upward, and dropped the subject. 

Chloe spent the next hour and a half at her desk, checking in with the uniformed cops who were at the scene, calling around to set up interviews with potential witnesses – other theater goers, mostly, and a parking attendant – for later that afternoon.

Lucifer, on the other hand, spent the next few hours getting home, showering, and stuffing into his nose whatever it was one of his overnight guests had left over from a few weeks ago. It wasn’t a good idea, even he knew that, because now he could feel his heart beating in his face. But something was happening to him. And he was going to be awake and alert, so help him Dad, if someone decided to put a rush on their plans.  
Because whatever was happening to him was making him more vulnerable, and the detective seemed to be causing it. He knew – or thought – that it couldn’t be her doing, he had already begun to lose control before she… whatever it was she did that helped.

Maze strolled in while he was checking and rechecking himself in the mirror, buzzing, though he wasn’t sure if it were from the stimulants or anxiety. 

“Vanity, thy name is…” she teased, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom.  
“Not now, Maze,” he warned, and she uncrossed her arms, standing. He sighed and motioned for her to speak.  
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror, inspecting the front of his body for any changes.  
Maze caught sight of what wasn’t there, and stepped into the bathroom slowly, shoving Lucifer into the counter with a huff.  
“You know, I think you like taking me from the back. Mounting…” he waggled his eyebrows “…evidence.”  
She ran her hands along his back, digging in with her nails where the corrupted skin lay before. He managed to only wince a little. It was still a bit tender, there.  
“Believe me,” he told her, “I don’t know what’s going on, either.”  
Maze motioned toward the hickey fading on his neck. “Oh, I know what’s going on.” She threw up her hands and he spun around, clapping his hands together.  
“And I feel just amazing about it,” he smiled broadly as her face tilted up into his. “So I’ve got to be going. My detective awaits.” He slid out of the bathroom without a second look, afraid that she would see his smile dropping, his face betraying the unease within.  
“You feel amazing because of the drugs, idiot,” she called out after him. 

Chloe expected for Lucifer to stroll into the department, call an all-staff meeting, and inform everyone that they had done the dirty and all was right in the universe and perhaps this whole cop-business wasn’t right for him, after all.  
But his gentleness last night, his… tenderness? Made her hope for a different outcome. His behavior that morning, his stiffness around her, made her stomach turn even now. She was used to putting on a good face, making sure she looked fine to discourage people from asking the questions she didn’t want to answer. But c’mon. He was jumpy enough to power a toaster. 

Her mind began to drift, wondering if his discomfort was due to the fact that he had put her on a pedestal this whole time and that her sex (read: she) wasn’t worth all that hassle after all.

But he had stayed, made breakfast.  
Well. It wasn’t his idea. She had asked. It’d be rude of him not to after she asked.  
She mouthed to herself to Shut up, Decker, her you’ve-never-been-good-enough highlight reel threatening to project itself onto the back of her frontal lobe. 

Chloe had been filling in paperwork for several minutes when she noticed him. Lucifer leaned against the column next to her desk, hands in his pants pockets, his arms tense against his frame. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, and she hadn’t heard him come through the building, though his voice always – always – gave away his approach. 

So he was still being weird, then.

She didn’t look up, his stressed energy and long, lean legs enough to identify him by the curves of his pants alone.  
“How long do I have before I start getting congratulated by all the women who work here?”  
Lucifer pushed himself back upright and bounced on his toes. “And all the men,” he reminded her absentmindedly.  
She stopped writing. “Lucifer,” she warned, looking up into his face. She wanted to remind him that that was a serious question, but didn't want to project any insecurity, in case he had decided she was no longer worth his time. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.  
His eyes darted wildly around her face, her desk, around the room.  
“Lucifer.”  
His eyes finally focused on her.  
“Are you high?” she asked.  
“Barely,” he responded, and she allowed her face to fall into an open hand. Before she could react, he was leaning over her, pulling photos out of files and spreading them around, crooning at the gruesome scenes. He stopped making comments like "a mercy killing, perhaps?” and “I wouldn't be caught dead in those shoes” and laughing at his own jokes when she stuck her hands over his to stop him from picking one up from the combustion case for a closer look.  
She turned her head to look into his face and saw the smile in his voice a moment ago had been replaced, lips parted, his eyes boring into the back of her hand as though he could see through it.  
He gripped the photograph tightly underneath her touch, his hand beginning to shake.  
“Where was this?” he asked her, his voice hard.  
She let go and he stayed in place, looking up into her face.  
“Rear of a public parking area. 917 S. Broadway.”  
He slid his hand along the table, photograph in hand, and begun to turn away when Chloe stood, grabbing his arm and stopping him.  
“Do you know what’s going on?” she asked, as he glanced toward his exit. “Tell me.”  
He pulled his arm back from her. “I think I’ve told you enough,” he said, and walked away, his words making him feel exactly like the squeak of the linoleum beneath his shoes. Chloe stood and watched him leave, realizing it might be for the last time.

He knew. He knew exactly who had done this. There was only one being in the universe who could blow a man from the inside out, and it all began to fall into place: his inability to control his form must have come from its arrival on Earth, forcing a shift in the presence of the Divine which had been stable up until then.  
And his weakness. His humanness. His desire not just to take the detective in carnal bliss, but to care for her, to fall to his knees at the alter of Chloe Decker.  
Yes, this being came to Earth and changed his equilibrium. Love and Death are two sides of the same coin, he thought bitterly, a universal need to create and destroy, to ebb and flow, to come together and blow apart. And this was a creature so disgusting he had tried to put it out of his mind for centuries. 

His sister.


	11. Surely You Must Feel It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer begins to understand the changes he's seen in himself.  
> Chloe misreads a meeting on the beach.  
> 

You know, recently, when she was upset like this, Chloe would manage to get to Lux, drink herself into giggles, and Lucifer would actually seem charming and she’d let him put her arm around her and she’d feel less alone in the dark. 

Except now she was sitting in her car outside of his club, incredibly sober, that little voice inside her head screaming at her to turn around and go home.

He wasn’t even here. The GPS tracking she had turned on in his phone told her he had been near the crime scene he had asked about, but for the last forty minutes had been heading west, toward the coastline. She knew he did drugs, of course, and drank stupid amounts, and that he was oh, yeah, the Devil himself, but she was still worried about him.  
Probably a special place in Hell for people like her. 

This was the wrong way to show her caring. This was giving off way more of a stalker vibe. If he were going to the beach, at night, he probably had some skank on his arm and wanted to show her some move that involved sand in all the wrong places.

No, Chloe chided herself. You should absolutely not go to the beach to find out if he was drowning his sorrows or just drowning.  
But she did anyway.

Lucifer kicked his shoes off in the car and left his jacket behind while he walked along the darkened beach toward the gentle sound of waves lapping against the sand. The night air was surprisingly cool, cooler here with the breeze coming over the sea, but his skin was still warm and he felt constricted even now, unbuttoning another button down from his collar and undoing his cuffs.

He walked toward the silhouette of a woman, her sleek curves accented by a tight, white dress reflecting the moonlight, glowing. His hands were fists as he walked and he was sure his eyes were burning, though he couldn’t see it for himself. 

“Azrael,” he called out her name, and she turned to look over her shoulder, holding her hands together delicately in front of her body.  
“Brother,” she called back, unafraid of being caught up in his war path.  
He stood next to her and resisted the urge to attack. Her relaxed demeanor wasn’t helping any. Her arrogance could rival his own.  
Though all angels were pretty much built that way.  
“Why.”  
“Why what, Luci?”  
His hands splayed open at that. “Why are you here?” he asked, though the question playing through his mind was why her, why her, why her.  
Azrael took a deep breath in, her long, brown hair brushing over her shoulder in the breeze. “I’m glad you got my calling card,” she said, leaning in toward him slightly.  
“Not easily missed,” he told her, recalling a picture of an eyeball smeared across a windshield, its final resting place a wiper blade. “Answer my question.”  
She sighed. “I’m here to see you, brother.”  
“Our long, long distance relationship was fine. Preferred, actually.”  
“It’s not every day the Devil changes, you know.”  
He stepped in closer toward her, sinking slightly in the sand. He wasn’t used to looking women in the eye. “You would know,” he said accusingly. "You're the one who made me reveal myself. Against my wishes," he added.  
“I did no such thing. But,” she drew out, and spoke toward the sea. He followed her gaze and saw nothing of interest, just the sea reaching out to the horizon. “I’m curious to see what did it. Father’s not here, we’d both sense that right away.”  
“Did what?”  
“This,” she gestured to his body, up and down. “You.”  
“You’re going to have to be much more specific on that one.”  
“I think your time on Earth has made you more obtuse as well.”  
His eyes were steel, locking onto her face, reading every emotion he could find. It was mostly annoyance, but also a hint of something happier, like she had just hid a Christmas gift on the high shelf in a closet and was trying very hard not to tell anyone about it.  
“Tell me,” he asked her, and hated himself for it – for making Chloe feel the same way he did now.  
“Don’t you feel it yourself, Lucifer? The warmth? The energy in every cell of your being lighting up with life?” He shook his head, willing his heart to stop pounding so loudly. “There’s a brightness inside you. Surely you must feel it.”  
His skin was warm, too warm to be comfortable. He shifted his shirt sleeves, exposing more skin to the night air, such a different feeling that a few nights ago.  
The opposite feeling, in fact. His skin, his muscles had ached, heavy and marred and smeared with blood only a few nights ago. Tonight he was hot, but also buoyant, light on his feet and in his head, a feeling usually only replicated when stoned.  
Like he couldn’t concentrate. There was too much sensory input.  
He felt the grains of sand shifting under his feet, the sound of individual waves reaching the shore after travelling for who knows how long at sea, the air moving the small hairs on his exposed skin. He looked out into the ocean, seeing the lights reflected on waves further out, and gazing upward, finding – to his surprise – the ease with which he could see the stars.  
He shook his head and swallowed thickly, not meeting his sister’s eyes. She smiled at his realization and placed a hand on his shoulder.  
“It’s a good thing,” she reminded him.  
“No,” he breathed out.  
“No? How?”  
“Because I’m –” he paused, considering. “It’s not possible.”  
“All things are possible with time,” she said, easing her hand down his arm to his hand.  
He opened his hand and she held it as though they were children again, naïve of what was to come.  
He spoke after a long moment. “And eternity?” he asked.  
“Nothing lasts forever.” 

Chloe watched as the two figures on the beach held hands and looked out onto the water together. He didn’t move to kiss her, his dark suit blending with the ocean behind him, her dress shining and glowing, and Chloe certainly didn’t own anything like it and it was all very romantic and she needed to leave, right now, before she was forced to see another moment of passion between two people who were obviously lovers. 

She also tried to remember to breathe on the way home. That usually helped.


	12. Like a Morning Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer spends the night at the beach and decides there is one person he really needs to see right now.  
> She disagrees.

Lucifer looked out into the night long after his sister left, swept into the air and gone in the space between breaths. Finally, the narcotics having worn off, he allowed the last few days’ events to weigh on him. He sat with his feet in the sand and listened as the city woke, staring out to horizon.

His hands gripped at the sand and he buried them deeper. Hell was beneath him. He could feel it, that pulse under the Earth, a deep, unyielding ache. 

The sun rose behind him, the shadows creeping toward the water, over little hills and footprints in the sand. His shadow lengthened in front of him, and he watched it scramble away. When the light hit the water he couldn’t stand it any longer, couldn’t stand to be away from the edge, the light pushing encouragingly at his back. He stumbled, standing up and marching into the water, deeper and deeper until he could no longer feel the bottom.

Stop falling off the edge of the world, he chastised himself, but the water was cold and he could only see around him so far, and the surrounding darkness comforted him.

He began to swim outward into the current, outward into deeper ocean. The Earth was far beneath him, but he was not falling. He was floating, held by the water, somewhere between air and earth.

He shed his shirt and pants easily, and they drifted away from him in the current. The light was higher in the sky, now. He watched as the sun rose over the hills and highways of his adopted home, and laid back with arms outstretched, facing the brightening sky.

There was a buoyancy within he didn't recognize. It felt like the air he pulled into his lungs spread throughout the rest of his body to his fingertips, fresh and light and like…

Like a morning star. He brushed the water from his eyes and caught sight of the last few stars, fading into the easy blue sky. That same blue Chloe held within herself. 

He laughed, throaty and spilling out him, uncontrollable. After one last look upward, Lucifer ducked under the water, and swam back to shore. 

 

Admittedly, walking back into Lux in the middle of the morning wasn’t unusual, even when mostly naked with salt water drying on his skin. He spotted Maze behind the bar as he came down the stairs. 

“We’re closed,” she told whoever was approaching, not bothering to see who it was.  
“Just one drink?” he asked, and she spun around, eyes wide. “Perhaps not.” he said, seeing her expression of confusion, of surprise.  
He quickly grabbed a seat at the bar, Maze still staring, holding an empty glass.  
“May I?” he asked, and reached over, plucking the glass from her fingers and choosing a bottle from behind the bar. He inspected the label, then opened and poured.  
“What’s wrong, Mazie? You look like I’ve grown an extra head.” She swallowed, and he continued. “That could be fine, I suppose. Depends which hea–”  
“You look,” she interrupted, and he put the glass to his lips, allowing the liquid to play on his lips for a moment.  
“Spectacular? Dashing? I know the hair’s not exactly cooperating.”  
She began to recover from her shock, her expression turning into a slight sneer. “Immaculate,” she spit out the word like it couldn’t leave her mouth fast enough.  
He continued to hold the glass but raised his eyebrows at the word. Maze wasn’t one to use such language.  
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she stated.  
“I’m very sneaky.” He put the glass down on the counter and swirled the liquid.  
“I didn’t sense you coming in,” she clarified.  
He stilled the glass.  
“I always know where you are. Always.”  
He raised the glass again but she stopped it, laying her palm flat on the top and pushing it back onto the counter. He looked into her eyes and saw apprehension, not rage. Gently he placed his hand on hers.  
“I’m always going to need you, Maze. Don’t worry about that.”  
She pulled her hand out from under his and left up the stairs. A door slammed. He finished his drink then went upstairs to clean up. There was one person he needed to see more than anyone right now.

There was only one person in the world Chloe wanted to avoid more than anyone else, and his voice had just rung out across the room. The detective felt defeated, having just concluded that she had exhausted all her leads in the “Curious” case. She had interviewed all two of her witnesses, the parking attendant and a stranger to the victim who had parked a few cars down. Which wasn’t exactly a lot to go on. But she had also interviewed the man’s wife, employer, friends, coworkers, and was coming up with nothing – no idea why someone would choose him, and forensics was coming up with no explosive residue, no sign of any external substance having been forced within or around the body.

So, she had just gotten off the phone with her lieutenant, reluctantly bumping the case up the chain to the FBI, in the hope that they could find a tie in to either a psychopath or a terrorist organization. Not that the two are mutually exclusive.

At this moment she wasn’t sure which category Lucifer fell in to.

He was all smiles, beaming, arms thrown open wide at the sight of her. She got up from her desk and walked around it to meet him halfway into the center area, not willing for him to hang around her desk, her personal space. He clasped his hands around the tops of her arms and leaned in to kiss her, and she jumped back, his hands immediately pulling away.  
“What the hell?” she whispered angrily, looking around to see if anyone else saw what he just tried to do.  
He straightened up. “What’s wrong, darling?” She fumed at the pet name, and he bent at the waist, leaning closer, smiling that obnoxious, cat-like grin. “Right. Not here. Is there a closet you’d like to try?”  
She slapped him then, not very hard, just enough to get her point across and she really couldn’t have cared less who saw what.

Someone definitely laughed, though.

He held a hand over his face and the surprise in his eyes was almost enough to make her feel bad about it.  
“You show up here,” she started, then lowered her voice, “high, after rushing out of my house, and I see you not twelve hours later with another woman?”  
He dropped his hand and tilted his head, then inhaled, opening his mouth to interrupt. She held up a finger and he closed his mouth.  
“You know what? No. Not jealous. I don’t care what you do. I’m the one being stupid. You’re just being yourself. I’m sorry I expected anything more.”  
“Detective, I can explain,” he pleaded, and glanced toward her desk. “Let me help. I know who the killer is in,” he rushed over and pulled the casefile toward him, reading the title. “The Curious Case of Spontaneous Combustion?” he asked, incredulous. “Who came up with this? Detective Douche? He would think it was funny.”  
Dan's voice called out as he emerged from the vending machine area. "It is funny," he told them as he passed. For a moment Chloe was thankful her ex-husband hadn't caught the whole show, but she was too angry with herself to dwell on it. She grabbed the file away from him and smacked in back down on her desk. “If you have any information you’d like to share,” she said, and he smiled, “about the case,” she emphasized, and his face fell, “I’m listening.”  
“Right. Well. It was –” he paused, thinking if he told her it was his sister, there’d be many more questions from many more officers and he was not going to spend any of his time explaining. “The point is, it’s never going to happen again. So you don’t have to worry about it.”  
Chloe grabbed him by the arm and began dragging him toward the door. “Leave. Now. You’ve done enough damage.”  
“Damage? I –” He stopped allowing himself to be pulled and several officers had to adjust their paths to walk around them. “I just wanted to see you,” he told her, his voice a slightly lower than before.  
She dropped her hand. “That so?” she asked, swearing that the heat in her face must be tanning her from the inside out.  
“Yes. There’s something happening to me and I'm sure now that you’re the one who’s causing it.”  
She nodded, looking away from him. “Sure, Lucifer. Of course. It’s always all about you.” She met his eyes and he was stunned into silence. “Just go. Please.”

She left him standing there. A familiar sight to be sure, her walking away. But it wasn't supposed to be like this anymore. She healed him. He didn't know what it meant. 

She listened. She knew him, now. Knew his name, knew his body. 

A quick glance over her shoulder afforded her the sight of her partner, standing near the door as people rushed past, like he was a rock and they were a river. His eyes were on the floor somewhere ahead of him. 

Lucifer had done this to himself, to fall on his knees in the worship of someone who he thought had shown him love. For the second time they pushed him away. And he had just discovered what the lowest common denominator was between them. 

Chloe watched him leave, her anger toward him fading rapidly, her anger toward herself threatening to shake her apart. 


	13. Then There You Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a month apart, Lucifer explains, Chloe listens.  
> He asks her for one thing.  
> It's the only thing that matters.

Nearly a month passed, a month in which Chloe had managed to plow through, only drifting and losing her laser-like focus and control in the moments she was home and Trixie was already asleep. Neither of them were sleeping well. Chloe kept up a good face, telling her daughter that she was sure Lucifer was just busy, and hoped that time would be enough to help her child move on from whatever magnetism Lucifer exuded. Most mornings Chloe found herself waking up on the couch. She had tried sleeping in her bed, like a normal human being, but the bed seemed to triple in size when she was alone, threatening to swallow her whole.

She was letting her glass of red wine air out in the kitchen while saying goodnight to her daughter. She laid next to her in the small bed, closed the story book she had read twice already, and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. Trixie wasn’t asleep yet, but close enough that she didn’t reach for her mother as she eased herself slowly out her tiny grasp.

A knock at the door had them both alert. Trixie sat upright, a huge smile plastering itself on face, and before Chloe could assure her that she should just lay down and try to go back to sleep the child was sprinting toward the door, throwing it open and revealing one Lucifer Morningstar.

His attention was immediately on her, and the child waited a beat, not throwing herself on him as she used to. Instead she stood, holding the door with one hand, then other settled on her thrust out hip. 

“I don’t like you anymore,” she told him, and Chloe was torn between laughing at her child’s attitude and suddenly becoming painfully aware at how disheveled the man standing in her doorway looked.

It was obvious he had tried to make himself presentable, his white shirt tucked mostly into his dark trousers, his hair smoothed back but not the typical comb-through he usually sported, his jacket on but perhaps slightly off-center, as though he had just thrown it on without adjusting it.

To the surprise of the three of them, Lucifer said nothing, instead dropping to one knee and opening an arm. Trixie’s pout slowly changed to a small smile, and he knew he had won that fight when she fell into his arms. He wrapped his long arms completely around her and closed his eyes until she pulled away.

Which happened to be when her mother asked.

“Trixie, baby. It’s time for bed.” Lucifer glanced upward at the crossed-armed detective and released her daughter, who said nothing, just turned and walked back into her room with a shy smile at her mother. 

He stood slowly and Chloe closed Trixie’s bedroom door, then resumed her stance in silence.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, and she nodded once, tight-lipped. “Can I come in?”

They waited in silence for her answer, and he slid his hand down the door to the handle to close it again when she told him, “I’m thinking.”

He waited, and she waved him in, walking toward the kitchen. He shut the door softly behind him but didn’t otherwise move.

“The woman on the beach was my sister,” he burst out, needing her to understand. “She wanted to see what had happened to me.”

“What did happen to you?” Chloe asked, waving a hand toward his appearance. 

He stepped in closer. “I was trying. To get rid of it. Nothing works anymore.” He sounded angry with himself.

“With everything you put in your body I’m not surprised your tolerance went up,” she said flatly, reaching – she realized, hypocritically – for her wine glass.

“No, you don’t understand,” he began, and stepped quickly into the dining area. “You did something to me. I can’t drown it out anymore. I tried.” He glanced upward and she put down her glass. “Everything.”

“Drown what out?” she asked.

He darted toward her, grabbing her hand in his. She pulled back but he held it to his neck. She was shocked at the heat coming off his body.

“Are you sick?” she asked, and he laughed, dropping her hand and walking into the living area, running his hands through his hair. “You’re burning up.”

“Yes, but not the right burning,” he emphasized. “You saw me. You saw it, the burns,” he began shoving off his jacket, and unbuttoning his shirt, and Chloe reached out her hands to stop whatever it was he was doing, “the scars, the hateful reminder of my Father’s love.” He tugged off his shirt and it slid to the floor. He turned, and showed her his back. “Gone.”

Stunned, she reached forward and placed her hands flat on his shoulder blades before she could realize what she was doing.

He nearly collapsed under her touch. His skin cooled under her hands, the relief spreading outward. She pulled her hands away suddenly and the heat returned, though it had lessened somewhat. He turned to see her face. 

She dropped her hands and asked incredulously, “She was your sister?”

“Yes! Yes. Please,” he closed his eyes and dropped his forehead. “Please understand. I can’t be like this.” 

He began to walk forward and she stepped backward as he spoke. She put her hands up on his chest to stop him, but it seemed only spur him on further. 

“I can’t be away from you,” he told her as they reached the wall, his hands on either side of her head. She allowed her eyes to flutter closed and held her hands against his bare chest.

“That’s so sappy,” she teased, and opened her eyes to a light smile on his face. Her brow furrowed as she trailed her fingers down his chest, over his stomach, and allowing them to settle, hooking one finger into his waistband. Her body was reacting to his proximity, but her mind was lagging behind.

“You’re the Devil,” she reminded herself more than him. He was breathing her in, her presence cool like water, soothing. Just being close to her was more comfort than he was able to find in anything else he had tried in the last month. She looked into his face at his silence.

“What did you do to me?” he whispered. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him, his lips so close to hers, his body enveloping.

Instead she eased his hips away and he exhaled, stepping back. She crossed her arms around her body, a physical barrier over her torso, still leaning her back against the wall.

“Don’t do that. I didn’t do anything. Don’t put me on a pedestal so I can fall off it again.”

Lucifer stood and gestured sharply to himself. “You did this!”

She rolled her eyes at his double meaning. “I remember. Vividly,” she pushed herself off the wall. “No, Lucifer. I’m not the angel here. I’m not the one with any magic powers, okay?”

“It’s not magic,” he said reflexively, and she ignored it, walking back toward the kitchen.

He started to walk toward her but was stopped in his tracks. That’s what it was. It had been gone for so long he had forgotten what it felt like. The light. The warmth. 

She leaned an elbow against the counter and watched him. “It’s not you,” he breathed out, and he heard her sigh.

“It’s not you,” he repeated more forcefully, and grabbed his shirt off the floor. “Well, it is. Of course it is,” he tried to sound reassuring. 

She took a sip of her wine.

“My Father asked one thing of me. One.” He shoved his shirt back on, buttoning it as he spoke. “And I couldn’t. I wouldn’t do it. Not for Him, not for yo...umanity.” His fingers stumbled in their haste. “Don’t you understand,” he rushed over to her. “I love you.”

She put down her wine glass and raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well?” he asked. “Didn’t you hear me? Don’t you know what this means?”

“That you’re even crazier than usual?”

He scoffed, and she saw his walls returning, building slowly in the lines of his body, tensing. She wasn’t going to allow that to happen again. Not when she knew what she wanted, even though she fought with herself over it. 

Gently she touched his hand, and he allowed her to slip her fingers between his. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that.” He turned his hand over and gripped hers more tightly. The air around them became warmer, time softening around their bodies. “Tell me. What’s going on?”

He stepped forward, moving her into the counter, sliding against her body, tilting his head down to kiss her. He hesitated, waiting for her to close the gap, his forehead resting against hers. She kissed him softly then, something to tell him that she was alright, that she wasn’t going anywhere. 

He deepened the kiss, letting go of her hand and wrapping his arms around her, hungry for her touch, hungry to be near her, for her to fill him like a drowning man dreams of air. Her hands roamed his back, pulling him closer.

She felt him begin to harden against her, and she lifted a knee, setting her bare foot against the cupboard. She gasped when he lifted her onto the countertop, her fingers drifting up to his shoulders, into his hair. She slid forward slightly and he moaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating down her throat, into her core.

Reluctantly, she moved her hands to his face, and eased him away, her thumb sliding over his cheekbone. His eyes searched her face, apprehensive.  
Her calm smile prompted him to speak first. 

“Do you forgive me?” he asked. She felt his arms tense against her, and she slid her hands down them, encouraging him to relax. There was something more to his question, a desperation behind his eyes that threatened to burst out under her touch.

“You didn’t do anything. I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he pleaded. “Please.” 

She realized what he needed her to say, that he was offering her this moment of redemption. She felt immediately, woefully inadequate. She wasn’t the one who could give him what he needed. 

He must have seen the fear in her eyes because he slowly released her, leaning back. She reached for his hand.

“I can’t,” she explained. “I’m sorry. It’s not up to me.”

“Chloe,” he started, looking at her hand in his, “I have been the same, exactly the same, for eons. I came to L.A. for a bit of fun. I was tired. Tired of the role my Father laid out for me, tired of being… him. I wanted to forget. You arrived into my life surrounded by the scent of death. I recognized it. That kinship. As much as you may think I’m this… light bringer. Yours is the orbit I fell in to.”

She remained silent as he pulled his thoughts together. 

“My Father rejected me because I refused to love anything more than Him. I’ve been in darkness since. And though I came to adore this city, the strange and beautiful things humans have created, I’ve never really loved any of it. I was empty. 

Then there you were.”

She shook her head, not accepting what he was saying.

“Every person has a spark of His love inside them,” he spoke slowly, needing her to listen. “So you can. He lives in you, which is bizarre, I know. It’s so obvious I’m surprised at how deplorable you all are to each other.”

She pulled him closer then, their foreheads resting against each other. She held her hands on his face and he embraced her lightly, unsure.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” she reassured him. She felt his unease, his unwillingness to move away from her, his desperate need to hear what he needed her to say. 

She brought her lips to his ear, hovering there, breathing him in, remembering that first night they had together, when she watched him healing. Perhaps there was truth in his words, his explanation. He had been so hurt, so scarred, and bleeding, and alone. She didn't have enough of an ego to think she healed him, but she knew something had passed between them, an understanding, perhaps, a compassion that went far deeper than sympathy for the Devil. He had helped her so much, brought her back to life when she felt as though she were treading water, just this side of drowning. He asked only this of her. 

“I forgive you, Samael,” she whispered.


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What about the ring?

Chloe smiled as she grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge in Lucifer’s apartment. Trixie’s drawing was there, front and center, held up by a small Devil-emoji magnet. 

“Did you ever speak to a lawyer about that copyright?” she called out, opening the bottle and taking a drink, enjoying the cool night air as it circulated around her warm, nude body. 

“Yes. They told me they would need proof that I was the original owner. So I have you to blame for the millions in back revenue I’ve probably lost,” he told her as the padded back to the bed. He was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, all fluid lines.

“My fault?” she said lightly, kneeling back on the bed, his eyes roaming over her form. She felt no shame in her figure. The way Lucifer worshipped it helped her self-esteem. A lot.

He took the bottle from her and she pouted while he took a swig. “Of course. I can no longer prove I’m the Devil.”

She licked her lips, glancing at the sheet draping itself over his form. “Do you miss it?”

He capped the bottle and twisted, setting it on the nightstand behind him. “I won’t lie, it did make the work we do easier. But I can still pull the desires out of people, so I suppose I didn’t lose all my mojo.” He leaned over and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her down toward him quickly. She laughed at the sudden movement, and settled against him, laying with her back to his front. She caressed his fingers as he leaned in, brushing his nose against the back of her neck, breathing her in.

She ran her fingertips over the black stone. “Do you ever take this off?” she asked, flipping his hand over and feeling the smooth metal against her skin.

He hummed lightly against her neck. It sent shivers down her back, and she arched slightly, pushing into him. She felt him smile with her movement, and he wound his fingers in hers.

“Why not? Doesn’t it get –” he ran his hand down her front, trailing gently between her thighs, “– dirty?” she breathed.

He kissed her neck lightly and she tilted her face toward him as he moved upward, kissing just behind her ear, gently biting her earlobe. Her breath quickened as she felt him harden against her, and she continued to turn, capturing his mouth in a kiss.

His hand slipped up her back and over her shoulder, and he pulled away, looking at the ring. “No,” he said easily, his brows furrowing, thinking. “I have to wear it, to hide my true form.”

She cupped the side of his face and his eyes looked into hers with a question. Now they were both curious. She unwound her leg from his and he sat up on his heels, holding his hand out, staring at the black rock. She pulled herself up slightly, leaning back on her elbows.

He fingered it with his other hand, twisting the metal around. “I suppose. No reason not to find out.”

They both took in a breath as he slipped it off. A moment passed, a long moment in which they both dared not to breathe. Lucifer shifted forward as if from a sudden weight, falling on a hand.

A pair of great white wings filled the room, stretched out to their fullest. Chloe gasped in surprise. Lucifer shut his eyes tightly, gripping the ring tightly in his palm. The weight on his back was familiar – he knew immediately what it must be – and yet he kept his eyes shut. 

Until Chloe reached forward and placed her hands on either side of his face. Only then he dared to open them, to look into her eyes. 

He beat the wings once, sending cool, fresh air around the room and she dropped her hands. He smiled slightly when she brushed a stray hair off her face from the sudden breeze before tucking them against his back.

She smiled widely upon seeing his eyes crinkling at her. 

“Alright?” he asked her, gazing up at her shyly.

She breathed out, unable to hold back her smile. She was sure she looked ridiculous, but didn’t care. His unease brought her back to Earth, and she cupped his face in her hand once more. 

“Are you?”

He slipped the ring back on, and the wings disappeared. The room darkened. She hadn’t realized how much light they radiated. He kissed her softly, lovingly, unhurried, before putting his forehead to hers.

A ghost of a smile snuck over his face, and she held his shoulders, breathing him in. 

“Absolutely fine. And it’s all your fault.” She huffed and pulled him down on top of her. 

He laughed, falling into her loving embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want them to be happy. Pure wish fulfillment!  
> Hope you all had a good time reading. This was something I really enjoyed writing. Hopefully I have more stories in me. For now, it's back to my regularly scheduled writing.  
> And loving the comments. Thank you all so much for your encouragement along the way. Love,  
> theleafpile


End file.
